


The Search for the Female Mariachi

by orphan_account



Series: The Female Mariachi [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Gen, a more... 'teen' version of the film?, in later chapters at least, kind of???, rated for language and dirty humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Miguel Rivera never knew anything about his great-great grandmother, other than that she had left behind her husband and daughter to play music with a friend of hers. But one day, he discovers that the 'friend' is actually her brother, who happens to be none other than the famous musician, Ernesto de la Cruz. And so, after ending up in the Land of the Dead, he decides to search for his great-great grandmother's brother in hopes of getting his idol's blessing.(OR: in which Imelda was the musician who died at 24, and Hector the shoemaker who died at 75.)





	1. Prologue (Miguel's POV)

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn't resist writing this, there was such good art on tumblr...  
> I might write a prequel one-shot to this later, too. But for now, here's a prologue.
> 
> And since I kind of made it obvious in the description, yes, some sibling relationships are gonna change. The twins are gonna be Hector's younger brothers, as making them Imelda's brothers would kinda make the whole thing complicated (and not in a poetic, good sense. Like writers block complicated).

Sometimes, I wonder if a curse has been placed on my family. It's as if the bad chain of events that had occured in the past are a result of a wizard getting mad or something.

I should probably explain. You see, in 1924, there was this woman, my great-great grandmother. She loved to play music for her husband and daughter. But then, one day, her friend came and offered to take her on a tour of the country—to help her pursue the career of being a musician.

And so, the woman left her husband and daughter behind.

As for her husband? He didn't have time for that careless, neglectful traitor! After ridding his life of music, he put on a pair of glasses and found a way to provide for his daughter.

Making shoes.

Because obviously, making candy, sparkly underwear, or fireworks wasn't an option. Nope, it just  _had_ to be shoes.

When she came of age, the man taught his daughter how to make shoes. Then, he taught her husband, and eventually his grandkids got roped into the business.

As his family grew, the business boomed. While music had torn his family apart, shoes kept them all together.

That man, the woman's husband... he was my great-great grandfather, Papa Hector. He died in 1975, way before I was born.

Still, that doesn't stop my family from telling his story every year on Dia de los Muertos.

And his daughter? She's my great grandmother, Mama Coco.

Since she's ninety-eight, she doesn't really have a good memory, but she's still a great person to talk to. In fact, she's the only member of this family who I can confide in when it comes to my passion for music.

Everyone else? They  _hate_ music. My family is literally the only family in Mexico who abhors it, all because of some event that happened ninety-three years ago—it's ridiculous!

Sure, what my great-great grandmother did was upsetting, but...I can't entirely blame her for it. Not when I, too, have such a stromg passion for music—and it's all thanks to Ernesto de la Cruz, the greatest musician of all time.

He wrote iconic songs, like "Remember Me" for example. It's a shame he died in 1942, after a large bell fell on him. Aside from getting crushed by a bell, I want to be just like him when I grow up!

If only my family would approve...


	2. i. un aspirante a mariachi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been FOREVER since I've updated, but I have my reasons... sorting things out for college takes up a LOT of time, as does planning, unfortunately.

The plaza was a place where many musicians—especially mariachis—would gather around during the day to practice playing their music.

So, of course, Miguel went to the plaza to shine shoes.

Case in point: currently, he was rambling about his issues with his family's ban on music as he shined a female mariachi's shoes.

"And it's just not fair!" He scrunched up his nose as he worked on the shoes' soles. "Why ban music just because this one woman—that no one even remembers—decided to leave and become a mariachi? It's not like I'd go down her path. I'd much rather follow the path that Senor De La Cruz had went down!"

The mariachi chuckled. "I see. Tell me, muchacho, have you ever talked to your family about this?"

The twelve year-old shook his head. "No. They'd freak out if I were to announce that I plan on becoming a musician when I grow up."

"Well, if I were in your shoes, I'd march up to them and declare 'Hey! I want to be a musician, just like De La Cruz! And if you aren't going to support me, then I'll just go out on my own!'" the mariachi mimicked the boy's voice as she spoke. Then, she switched back to her normal tone as she added, "Unless, of course, you want to be 'Hector Rivera  _Jr._ '" 

He shuddered at the thought of working in the shoe shop. "You're right," he muttered. "I need to confront them about it."

"First, you'll need to work on your guitar skills a bit." She pulled out her guitar, handing it over to the boy. "Now, give it your best shot, muchacho!"

Just as Miguel was about to play the instrument, he heard his grandmother shout his name.

" _MIGUEL!_ "

The boy winced as he turned, seeing his grandmother, Elena, make her way towards him. He gave the guitar back to the mariachi, mumbling a quick, "Lo siento, Senorita," before he ran over to Elena.

"What were you doing?" Elena asked, placing her hands on her hips. "You know the plaza is crawling with musicians, and that—"

"—music is banned, I  _know_ ," Miguel interrupted. "But there's so much shoe traffic here, and it's not my fault that she needed a shoe shine!" He gestured to the mariachi as he spoke. "Besides, it's not like I would've had the actual chance to play her guitar anyway..."

Elena sighed. "Let's just go home." As they began to walk away, she added, "We're going to have to discuss your behavior once we get to the shop, though. Tu comportamiento está fuera de control!"

Miguel sighed. This day wasn't going in his favor at all.

* * *

When they entered the shop, Elena didn't hesitate to announce what had happened to the family. Once she had brought Miguel over to his parents, she exclaimed, "I found your son shining a mariachi's shoes at the plaza!"

"Miguel," Enrique sighed, "how many times must we go over this?"

"You know how the family feels about the plaza," Luisa spoke softly.

Miguel looked at the ground, unsure of what to say. Right now, he felt as though there was nothing he could do or say that would change the fact that in his family's eyes, he had messed up.

"Why were you even there in the first place?" Berto asked.

"It was probably due to his fascination with music," Gloria muttered.

Rosa giggled. "You shouldn't be so obsessed with music, you know. It's not like you have the talent to play an instrument anyhow."

"Yeah," Abel agreed. "You can't just shine a musician's shoes and expect to become a star instantly."

"Hey," Franco spoke up as he looked at the two. "That's enough."

Elena looked at Miguel. "Dia de Los Muertos is near, and tonight is all about family. So come with me to the ofrenda room."

She grabbed his land, leading him outside, where Coco sat in her wheelchair. Elena let go of her grandson's hand as she began to push her mother's wheelchair into the room, with Miguel trailing behind her.

Elena kissed her mother's cheek, before she looked back at Miguel. "Dia de Los Muertos is the only year our ancestors can come and visit us," she began to explain, wrapping an arm around his shoulder as she gestured to the ofrenda. "We put their photos on the ofrenda so they can cross over. This is very important."

Miguel glanced at all the photos, before he focused his gaze on his great-great grandfather's portrait. It looked as though it had been taken in 1924, when Hector had just turned twenty-four alongside his wife. A five year-old Coco was in her father's arms, smiling at both him and her mother—however, her mother's face had been torn out of the picture; most likely due to the overwhelming grief and anger that had overtaken Hector after she left.

"Being a part of this family means that you must be here for this family," Elena explained. "I don't want you to end up like—like  _her._ " There was a hint of disgust in her voice as she spoke of her grandmother. 

“How come you never say the name of Mama Coco’s mother?” Miguel asked curiously. “Surely, it can’t be _that_ taboo now—”

Elena cut him off, “ _We don’t speak of that traitorous wench!_ ”

“Ma... _Mama?_ ” Coco murmured as her eyes opened a little. “Mama’s home?”

“No, Mama,” Elena said, trying to sooth her mother as she approached her, placing her hands on the ninety-eight year-old’s shoulders. “But it’s okay. I’m here.”

“Victoria, mija, is that you?” Coco asked as she glanced at Elena.

The seventy-two year-old frowned. “I’m hard on you because I care, Miguel.” As she glanced over to where the boy had been, she noticed that he had already left. She let out a sigh as she glanced at her grandfather’s photo. “What are we going to do with him, Papa Hector?”

Then, an idea hit her. “...you’re right! That’s exactly what he needs!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and with regards to that "traitorous wench" thing: no, that's not something Elena picked up from Hector, it just the distaste for her ""neglective"" grandparent talking.


	3. ii. a life-changing discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While attempting to enter the music competition, Miguel stumbles across a piece of information that'll change his life completely...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried not to copy the script to the max, so a few changes are there in the beginning (Ernesto doesn't get to kiss any woman for one, because he doesn't deserve to lol). Though, it gets MUCH more divergent after this chapter, with lots of headcanons sprinkled in.  
> Also, again, so sorry it took forever to update!! Brainstorming for this was hard.

Dante quickly scrambled up the roof as he heard a faint noise. He lifted the sign the Rivera family would use to advertise their shoes, and carefully snuck in. Seeing Miguel sitting near a small ofrenda decorated with pictures of the late Ernesto de la Cruz, he walked over to the boy and nuzzled his side.

Miguel jumped slightly as he felt the dog brush up against him. He turned around, letting out a sigh of relief upon seeing that it was just the dog. “Don’t scare me like that, Dante,” he said softly. “You know that if I make any noise, they’ll hear me.” Then, he frowned. “If only someone wanted to hear me other than you…”

The boy clutched a handmade wooden guitar in his hands. He gently plucked a string, making a small tune as he did so. He smiled a little, before crawling over towards an old television set. He turned the tv on, and slid in an old VHS tape from 1939 in.

It was an interview of Ernesto de la Cruz, just three years prior to his death. 

“Señor de la Cruz, what did it take for you to seize your moment?” the interviewer questioned him.

The forty-five year-old leaned back into his chair a bit, resting his chin on his hand before he replied with, “I had to have faith in my dream. No one was going to hand it to me. It was up to me to reach that dream, grab it tight, and make it come true.”

“…and make it come true,” Miguel whispered, just as the short video came to an end.

He got up, turning to Dante. “You know what, Dante? I think I’m ready to seize my own moment – tonight, I’m going to play at the plaza and prove to my family that I deserve to play music!”

* * *

Children ran by the family compound with sparklers just as Elena opened the doors.

“Día de los Muertos has begun!” she announced.

Manny and Benny scattered marigold petals from their baskets haphazardly, only for Luisa to stop them.

“No, no, no, no,” the pregnant woman said. She picked up a few petals and made a small path from the ofrenda room to the front gate. “If you scatter them _that_ way, you’ll end up confusing our ancestors. A clear path must be made, or else they’ll get lost.”

As Luisa taught the small boys, Miguel and Dante snuck across the roof, dropping to the sidewalk against the compound. The twelve year-old clutched his guitar as if it were a lifeline.

“Mamá,” he heard his father call out, along with footsteps and heaving, “where should we put this table?”

Miguel and Dante quickly jumped back into the courtyard before anyone could see them.

“In the courtyard, mijos,” his grandmother replied, her voice sounding close.

“Down by the kitchen?”

“Sí.”

Quickly, Miguel backed out of the courtyard and into the family ofrenda room. He ushered Dante past a sleeping Coco, under the ofrenda table. He then slid his guitar underneath as well. “Now stay under there until they’re gone, okay?” he whispered.

“Miguel!”

The boy turned around to see his grandmother, father and mother entering the room.

“N-nothing!” he stammered nervously.

The three adults stared at him for a moment, until Enrique spoke up, “Miguel, your abuelita had the most wonderful idea! We’ve all decided — it’s time you join us in the workshop!”

Elena handed Enrique a leather apron, which he hung over his son’s shoulders.

“ _What?!_ ” Miguel’s eyes widened. The mariachi from the plaza—she had been right; if he had spoken up sooner, his family wouldn’t be attempting to mold him into a younger version of Papá Héctor!

“No more shining shoes,” Enrique continued. “You will be making them every day after school, from now on!”

Elena shuffled towards her grandson, squealing. She squeezed his cheeks, full of pride for the boy. “Our little Migueli-ti-ti-ti-to carrying on the family tradition! And on Día de los Muertos! Oh, if Papá Héctor were here, he would’ve been overcome with joy!”

“What if…” Miguel backed away from his grandmother’s hold. “…what if I end up disappointing Papá Héctor? What if I bring shame to this family, all because I might not be a good shoemaker?”

“Ah, Miguel,” Luisa said, stepping forward and placing a hand on her son’s shoulder, “you are his great-great grandson. His spirit will be there to guide you. After all, the Rivera family is best known for…?”

“…being shoemakers, through and through,” the boy finished.

His father swelled with joy. “That’s my boy!” He then called out to his brother, “Berto, bring out the good stuff! I want to make a toast!”

As Enrique left the room, Luisa smiled at her son, while Elena smothered him with a dozen kisses.

When they finally left, Miguel’s heart sunk like a ship’s anchor. He turned to the ofrenda, frowning as he looked at his great-great grandfather’s portrait. “Why, Papá Héctor?” he asked quietly. “Why did you have to ban music, over this one event that happened with your wife, years ago?” _Why did you have to doom your great-great grandson into spending the rest of his life, unable to live out his dream?_ the boy added silently, knowing all too well that he would never get to say it aloud.

Then, Dante shuffled from his spot under the table. He put his front legs up on the bottom tier as he began to dig into the plate of mole left behind.

“Dante, no!” Miguel cried out, as he began to pull the dog off the table, only for it to start shaking.

Héctor’s photo frame swayed back and forth, before it fell to the ground, the glass shattering. Alongside the photo was a folded sheet of paper.

“No, no, no, no, no! No…” Miguel picked up the photo. “Lo siento, Papá Héctor… Mamá Coco’s madre…”

Then, his attention turned to the paper that had fallen beside the photo. He placed the photo in his pocket, before he picked up the paper and unfolded it. It was a letter.

“Dear Ernesto,” Miguel read aloud, “I have thought long and hard about your offer to go on tour in order to start our musical careers. I accept it. After all, it has been a while since we’ve played music together. It would be a nice way to catch up on things. So, I will see you soon. Love… _tu hermana pequeña?!_ ” The boy was shocked as he read the last three words.

Dante tilted his head as he watched Miguel beginning to pace back and forth.

“My great-great grandmother was the younger sister of Ernesto de la Cruz,” the boy stated, getting a little excited. “Mamá Coco’s madre was the sister of Ernesto, which makes him my great-great-great uncle!”

“Mamá?” Coco asked, having woken upon her mother being mentioned.

Miguel went over to his grandmother, seeking her confirmation, “Is it true, Ernesto’s little sister is your mamá?”

“Mamá! Mamá!” the ninety-eight year-old sputtered.

Miguel pulled the photo out of his pocket, glancing at it once more. He squinted his eyes as he looked down at the corner, noticing the date it had been taken. “March 7th, 1924… just two months before _June_ 1924, when he made his debut!” the boy gasped.

The boy stuffed the photo into his left pocket, still holding onto the letter. He crawled under the table and grabbed his guitar. Then, he got up and rushed out of the ofrenda room and into the courtyard.

“Papá!” he called out. “ _Papá!_ ”

His parents soon came, curious at the boy’s tone of urgency.

“Papá, I know who my great-great grandmother is now!” Miguel exclaimed excitedly, pointing at the letter. “She was Ernesto de la Cruz’s little sister!”

“Ernesto de la _who?_ ” Enrique asked, confused.

“And just like her and Tío Ernesto, I’m going to be a musician!” Miguel declared, holding up his guitar.

* * *

The twelve year-old watched as his grandmother dumped his tapes at his feet, while the rest of his family stood by and watched.

"You keep secrets from your family?" Elena asked, glancing at the tapes and her grandson.

"Well, yeah," Miguel answered. "But it's only because you guys hate music so much—"

"—and with reason!" Elena interrupted him. "Your great-great grandmother left with this... 'Ernesto' man to go and play music, leaving behind her husband and child!"

"But Abuelita, don't you see? My ancestors are supposed to guide me, and Mama Coco's madre and Ernesto de la Cruz  _are_ my family! I'm _supposed_ to be a musician, it's in my blood!" Miguel insisted, showing off the letter before he put it in his right pocket as he attempted to play his guitar.

Elena gasped, and quickly snatched the guitar away from his hands. "So you're saying you want to be forgotten, left off someone's ofrenda just so you can entertain a bunch of strangers? Because that is how you will end up if you follow that woman's path!"

"I don't care about my photo being on some stupid ofrenda!" the boy shouted, causing his family to gasp.

Elena's eyes narrowed. She then raised the guitar up, ready to smash it.

Miguel's eyes widened. "No!"

"Mamá—" Enrique tried to protest, but to no avail.

Elena smashed the guitar against the ground, until it was nothing but a bunch of wooden pieces. She rubbed her hands together afterwards, muttering, "No guitar, no music." Then, she did the 'father, son, holy spirit' gesture before she turned to her grandson. She noticed that he was tearing up a little, and placed a hand on his cheek. "There, there... come, you'll feel better after you eat with your family."

" _I don't wanna be in this family!_ " Miguel shouted, before he ran out of the courtyard, ignoring his father's calls.

If he wasn't going to have their support, then so be it.

He was still going to 'seize his moment', like his great-great-great uncle had. 

After all, if it had worked for Tío Ernesto, then it was bound to work for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, with the letter thing — originally, I would've had Dante dig underneath the drawers, but that idea just didn't sit well long enough for me. So, take it as Coco keeping the thing near her father's photo on the ofrenda after his death as a reminder of what once was, to try to keep her mom's memory with her (but of course, it doesn't actually work cause a. Alzheimer's and b. It's still not a photo). Basically, a daughter's attempt at a sweet sentiment. Either way, a way to start off our adventure as Miguel here has uncovered a part of the past.  
> Next up, we're gonna meet the dead Riveras, especially Héctor, and then a certain lady whomst I think you already know will be debuting. ;)  
> Rambling aside, I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter!


	4. iii. the rivera ensemble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here, you'll find some similarities and yet, some subtle differences too.

Seizing one’s moment is not easy— _especially_ if you have to break into someone’s mausoleum in order to achieve your goal.

But Miguel knew that he would not be able to seize his moment, without a little ‘aid’ from his great-great-great uncle, Ernesto de la Cruz.

And so, the boy threw his shoulder into the rusted-shut window pane and forced it open. He slinked inside the tomb, dropping down to the floor. The noise from the outside was muffled.

He climbed into the crypt, slightly moving the lid. He stifled a gasp.

He crawled over the marble sarcophagus and came face-to-face with De la Cruz’s guitar. He wiped away a layer of dust, revealing the rich wooden paint beneath.

Miguel looked up to the portrait of De la Cruz. “Señor de la Cruz?” he began. “Please don’t be mad. I’m Miguel, your sister’s great-great grandson—your great-great-great nephew… I need to borrow this.”

His heart in his throat, Miguel lifted the guitar off its mount. Unbeknownst to him, some marigold petals in the mausoleum began to sparkle.

“Our family thinks music is a curse,” Miguel continued. “Nobody understands, but I know you and your sister would have. Especially you—you would’ve told me to follow my heart, to seize my moment!” He backed up, in full view of the painting. “So if it’s alright with you, I’m gonna play in the plaza, just like you did!”

Confidence building, he strummed the guitar once. The air around him vibrated, radiating like a shock wave. The petals on the ground whirled and surged with light for just a moment.

Taken back, Miguel wondered, _what just happened?_

Suddenly, a flashlight shined in the window of the mausoleum.

“The guitar!” someone cried out. “It’s gone! Someone stole De la Cruz’s guitar!”

Then, the twelve year-old heard keys jangling and the door unlocking.

The groundskeeper entered with a flashlight, shining it around the place. “Alright, who’s there?” he questioned.

Startled, Miguel quickly put down the guitar. “I – I’m sorry!” he apologized. “It’s not what it looks like! De la Cruz is my great-great-great uncle!”

The groundskeeper then walked straight through Miguel, not even noticing the boy. “There’s nobody here!” he shouted to the other people outside of the mausoleum.

Panicked, the boy ran out, trying to figure out what was going on, only for the people in the cemetery to walk through him, too.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice.

“Miguel!”

He turned around to see his mother and father, still searching for him. “Mamá!”

“Miguel!” Enrique called out his son’s name. “Come home!”

He reached for his parents, but went straight through them.

“Where are you, Miguel?!” his father continued to call for him, not knowing that his son was nearby at all.

Frantic, Miguel tripped and fell into an open grave.

A nearby woman gasped and peeked over the ledge of the grave. “Dios mío! Little boy, are you okay?” She reached into the grave. “Here, let me help you.”

Miguel took her hand, and she pulled him up. “Thanks, I—” he then screamed as soon as he saw that she was a skeleton as they came face to face. She, too, screamed.

He backed away, only to bump into another skeleton. And then another after backing away once more, except this skeleton’s head fell off.

“Do you mind?” the skeleton head demanded, irritated.

Miguel screamed again, and so did the head. The boy tossed the head away, only to turn to see that the entire cemetery was crawling with skeletons—and they, too, saw him.

He raced off and hid behind a grave, observing a couple of elderly skeletons watching over a little toddler.

“Look at how big she’s getting!” the skeleton grandmother gushed, while her husband nodded.

Suddenly, Dante surprised Miguel by licking his cheek.

Miguel almost screamed, until he saw that it was just the stray xolo. “Dante?! You can _see_ me? …wait, what’s going on?”

Dante barked, pointed and then bounded through the crowd.

“Dante! _Dante!_ ” Miguel called out as he gave chase, until he ran straight into a mustached skeleton and fell into the ground.

The skeleton’s bones broke apart and scattered. The head popped up.

“Lo siento, lo siento,” the boy apologized quickly.

“Miguel?!” the skeleton cried out—sounding like he was at least eighty-three years of age—as his bones rearranged themselves back together.

“Miguel?” two women cried out as well—one sounding like she was sixty, while the other was forty-five—shocked at hearing the boy’s name.

“You’re here!” the eighty-three year-old gasped. “ _Here_ here! And you can _see us?_ ”

Miguel paused for a moment as he looked at the skeleton, recognizing him as his great-grandfather. “Papá Julio?” He looked at the skeleton women, who then walked up to him. “Tía Rosita? Tía Victoria?”

Suddenly, Julio’s sister scooped the boy up into her arms as she hugged him tightly

“Our _Migueli-ti_ - _ti-ti-ti-to!_ ”

Miguel struggled for air as he was smothered by his great-great aunt’s rib cage. “Tía Rosita, I can’t—can’t—”

“Tía, you’re smothering the poor boy,” Victoria said bluntly as she stood by her aunt.

“Oh, sorry,” Rosita said as she let go of Miguel, who began to catch his breath.

When he did, he looked at Victoria, who in turn, looked him up and down before poking his cheek.

“He doesn’t seem dead,” she commented, a little skeptical. “At least, from the looks of it.”

“But he’s not exactly alive either,” Rosita observed. “If he was, then he wouldn’t be able to see us.”

“We should talk to Papá Héctor about this once he gets here,” Julio said. “He’ll know what to do, and how to fix this problem!”

Suddenly, twin skeletons ran, huffing, towards the family. Miguel immediately recognized them as Héctor’s younger twin brothers, Óscar and Felipe.

“Oye!” Óscar huffed.

“It’s Papá Héctor—” Felipe began, winded.

“—he wasn’t able to cross the bridge!” Óscar continued his brother’s sentence, still huffing.

Julio, Rosita and Victoria gasped.

“He’s stuck—” Óscar started.

“—back there, on the other side!” Felipe finished.

“Tío Óscar?” Miguel asked. “Tío Felipe?”

“Oh, hey Miguel,” Óscar said, waving at the boy, before he and his brother gasped as they realized that their great-great-great nephew could actually see them.

Victoria turned to Miguel. “I have a feeling that you are somehow responsible for Abuelito’s predicament,” she stated.

Miguel felt a little discomfort as she said this. He then remembered what his grandmother had told him about Victoria and her bond with Héctor, when he was seven.

 _“Vico and Papá Héctor always had this special bond,”_ his abuelita had said with a sigh. _“And while Papá Héctor never explicitly said anything, it was very obvious that she was his favorite granddaughter. I don’t know how their special connection began, or if it had been there since the day she was born… all I know is that he felt so much pride by just looking at her, and that she looked up to him so highly.”_

Of course. That explained why Victoria placed the blame on him quickly, though at the same time, it was a reminder that Papá Héctor still had a great influence even on his _dead_ relatives, not just the living ones.

“Well, if Papá Héctor can’t come to us…” Rosita began, trailing off.

“…then we are going to him! Vamonos!” Julio finished, grabbing Miguel by the arm as the family rushed through the cemetery, trailed by Dante.

Moments later, Miguel found his gaze falling upon a glowing marigold arching before them. “Whoa…” he murmured.

The bridge extended into the mist, a stream of skeletons ambling across for the holiday.

His dead relatives passed through an invisible barrier onto the bridge. Their bodies changed from ghostly to completely solid.

Miguel hesitated a bit at the threshold, until Papá Julio said reassuringly, “Come on, Miguel. It’s okay.”

He followed after his family, the petals glowing beneath his feet with every step he took.

Dante took off, and Miguel ran after him, calling out, “Dante, wait up!”

When he finally caught up to the dog, he saw that the xolo was rolling in the petals at the crest of the bridge. Dante sneezed some petals into the boy’s face.

“You gotta stay with me, boy,” Miguel continued. “We don’t know… where…”

He trailed up as the sparkling city of the Land of the Dead emerged from the mist. The scene was almost breathtaking. His family then sidled up.

“This isn’t a dream, then,” Miguel remarked, amazed as he began to walk alongside the twins and Victoria. “It’s real… you’re all really out there…”

“You thought we weren’t?” Victoria asked, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t you ever hear about this place before?”

“Yeah, but…” Miguel shrugged. “I don’t know, I thought it was just one of those made up things that adults tell kids… like… vitamins.”

Victoria rolled her eyes at the boy’s comment. “Miguel, vitamins are a real thing.”

“Well, now I’m thinking maybe they could be,” the boy muttered, before straightening up a bit as some skeletons passed by.

A couple of little kids pointed at him, but their parents immediately covered their children’s eyes as they moved away quickly to avoid the living boy. Miguel put his hood up.

The Riveras continued on towards an arrivals on the far side of the bridge. Miguel saw fantastical creatures flying above, crawling, and making nests in nearby architectures.

“Alebrijes!” Miguel gasped, pointing to one. “But those are—”

“ _REAL_ alebrijes,” Óscar told him. “Spirit creatures.”

“They guide souls on their journey,” Rosita added.

“You should see Héctor’s alebrije,” Felipe said, looking at Miguel. “She’s big and _magnificent_ ; a gift from his wife back when they were alive and—”

“— _oye!_ ” Victoria cut her great-uncle off, shooting a glare at him. “What did Abuelito say about bringing her up? You know she’s still a sore wound to talk about!”

“Right,” Felipe said quickly, realizing his mistake. He whispered to Miguel, “Forget what I said, okay?”

 _Even in death, Mamá Coco’s madre is a taboo subject_ , Miguel thought as they all got to the far edge of the marigold bridge.

At the Marigold Grand Central Station, a person on the speakers said, “Welcome to the Land of the Dead. Please have all offerings ready for re-entry. We hope you enjoyed your holiday!”

Miguel looked up, seeing a sign that read ‘Re-Entry.’

“…if you are experiencing any traveling difficulties, agents at the Department of Family Reunions are available to assist you,” the speaker added.

The Riveras got into the line for Re-Entry, along with other skeletons returning from the Land of the Living.

However, as Miguel watched a couple of skeletons exit through a gate called ‘Departures’, one woman caught his eye.

“It is I, Frida Kahlo,” the mysterious woman said as she stepped up to the departure agent’s monitor. However, Miguel could tell that it wasn’t Frida Kahlo, because this woman sounded like she was at least twenty-four years old—and it was a well known _fact_ that Frida died at age forty-seven, due to illness. “Let us skip that scanner, shall we? After all, I _am_ very well-known across the entire country, and I know for a fact that you can’t scan that many ofrendas in one night.”

The monitor still scanned her, and an “X” appeared, accompanied by a negative buzzing sound.

“Oh, darn!” the departures agent said as she looked at the monitor, before looking back at the impostor. “Looks like no one put up your photo, _Frida_ …”

The woman peeled off her unibrow and wig, revealing a braided bun underneath. She then threw off her frock, showing off a ragged, light purple dress kept together by a rope. Her right arm and leg had a bit of grey duct tape on them, serving as bandages of some sort. She was also barefoot. “Okay, so I _might_ have lied a little when I said I was Frida. But can you blame me for that? No, because no matter how much I try, you _still_ refuse to let me cross the bridge!”

“Señorita, your photo is not on any ofrenda,” the departures agent replied. “No photo, no crossing the bridge.”

“Then you leave me no choice,” the woman said, her eyes narrowing, before she bolted for the bridge.

She slid past the guard in her path, quickly pushing him back as she ran ahead.

“ _AHA!_ ” She reached the bridge at a sprint, but the magic didn’t engage. She sunk right into the petals. “No, no, no, no, _NO!_ So close, just a little further—!”

The guards sauntered to the bridge and casually pulled the woman back toward the Land of the Dead. “Upsy-daisy,” one guard said.

“Fine, _fine_ ,” the woman grumbled. “Who cares, quien da un maldito! _Puente de flores del diablo!_ ”

Miguel watched as the guards hauled her out. Rosita looked up just in time to see his back.

“That poor woman,” she remarked. “I don’t know what I’d do if my family never put up my photo!”

“Next!” the arrivals agent called out.

“Oh!” Rosita grabbed Miguel’s hand. “Come on, mijo, it’s your turn.”

The arrivals line moved forward. The dead Riveras crowded around the gate as the arrivals agent leaned out from his window.

“Welcome back, amigos!” the agent greeted them. “Anything to declare?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Julio replied.

The family pushed Miguel to the front. The twins put his hood down, revealing that he was very much alive.

“Hola,” the boy said nervously, waving his hand at the arrivals agent.

The agent’s jaw literally dropped from its hinges once he saw the living boy.

* * *

The family was escorted by a security guard across an arching second floor walkway. Dante happily trotted alongside.

Miguel looked up to see gondolas traveling by. “Whoa…”

Skeletons stared at Miguel as he walked by. Suddenly, the boy noticed Óscar was staring at his face in deep contemplation.

“I miss my nose,” Óscar sighed.

At the end of the walkway was doors emblazoned with ‘Department of Family Reunions.’ The family passed through.

As they passed by, they saw dozens of families talking to various agents, trying to find a way to cross the bridge as quickly as possible so they could enjoy the holiday.

However, one traveler in particular was raising hell.

“I demand that you check the ofrenda again!” a seventy-five year-old man shouted as he slammed his bony hand against the desk of a caseworker. He was wearing glasses, along with a blackish purple shirt, red pants and a brown apron was wrapped around his waist.  

The caseworker cringed as he tore into her. “I’m sorry, Señor, but it says that no one put up your photo—”

The man coldly eyed the caseworker. “My family would never — _NEVER_ — leave my photo off of the ofrenda! Every year, they put it up; that _estúpida máquina_ is lying to you!”

Just as he was ready to shake the monitor with his own bare hands, Julio walked up to the man and asked, “Papá Héctor?”

Héctor turned sharply, a cold look still on his face, causing Julio to back away a bit. However, his face softened upon seeing his son-in-law.

“Oh, mi familia!” Héctor said, relieved to see them. “They said that my photo wasn’t on the ofrenda, so they wouldn’t let me cross over. Could you please explain to this woman—” he angrily gestured at the caseworker as he mentioned her “—that my photo wasn’t taken off of the ofrenda, or forgotten?”

“That’s the thing, though,” Julio began, “we didn’t make it to the ofrenda.”

“ _What?_ ” Héctor was shocked at what he was hearing.

“You see, Abuelito,” Victoria said, as she stepped forward, “we ran into Miguel.”

Héctor’s eyes fell on the young boy.

The two’s eyes widened as they looked at one another, recognizing each other.

“ _Miguel?!_ ”

“Papá Héctor…”

“What is going on?” Héctor asked, both shocked and upset that the boy was there when he wasn’t even supposed to be—he wasn’t even dead, for heaven’s sake!

Then, a door opened and a clerk poked his head out. “You the Rivera family?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice, Imelda and Héctor are still both wearing purple like in the film, since it's their color and, yknow... Imector parallels... ;))
> 
> And yes, as you can see, Victoria is very much an "Abuelito's girl" here. :D Héctor having Victoria as his favorite granddaughter is my favorite headcanon, and I just can't get past it when it comes to a role-swap AU. So you can expect Victoria to speak a bit more than usually in canon. Maybe the twins, Julio and Rosita too, but that depends.
> 
> Also, I'm gonna try keeping at least some of Imelda and Héctor's characteristics the same, while also writing them in their swapped roles (aka Imelda is the lonesome trickster/former musician and Héctor is the bitter shoemaker, but still with a BIT of their canon traits remaining... at least, hopefully. Idk, I can't promise much).


	5. iv. no matter what it takes

“Well, you’re cursed,” the clerk said.

“ _What?!_ ” Miguel cried out in shock, while the others (excluding Héctor) gasped.

“Dia de los Muertos is a night to _give_ to the dead, and yet you _stole_ from the dead!” the clerk accused him.

“But I wasn’t going to steal the guitar!” Miguel defended himself.

“ _Guitar?_ ” Héctor’s eyes widened a bit. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared much if his grandson had taken another item, as kids usually tended to take things that weren’t theirs—after all, he, too, had been a mischievous boy when he was twelve. But a  _guitar?_ Not on his watch. 

“It belonged to my great-great grandmother’s—” Miguel started, only to be interrupted by his great-great grandfather.

“— _OYE_ _!_ ” Héctor raised his hand, pointing it as he spoke angrily, “We _never_ speak of that – _mariachi!_ ” There was venom in his voice as he spat the word out, like it was a curse. “She is _nothing_ to this family!”

“Umm, she’s only nothing to _you_ ,” Miguel said, while Dante went to the clerk’s desk, trying to eat up the sweets on his plate. “The rest of the family barely even knows her— _I_ don’t even know her.”

The clerk suddenly sneezed as Dante came close. Then, he sniffed and asked, “I’m sorry, but who’s alebrije is that?”

“That’s just Dante,” Miguel said as he grabbed the dog. “He doesn’t have an owner.”

“He sure doesn’t look like an alebrije,” Rosita said, gesturing to the window as one flew by.

“He just looks like another stray xolo you’d find running around the streets,” Óscar remarked.

“Or a sausage someone dropped in the barbershop after a mistake in delivery,” Felipe added, nudging his twin brother’s shoulder as he held his hat.

Rosita and Julio nodded, looking amused while Victoria rolled her eyes.

“Whatever he is, I am—” the clerk stopped as he sneezed. “Terribly allergic.”

Miguel put Dante down. “But Dante doesn’t have any hair.”

“And I don’t have a nose, and yet here we are,” the clerk replied, before he sneezed again.

“And yet none of this serves as an explanation as to why _I_ couldn’t cross the bridge, when I was able to do so without any problems the year before!” Héctor began to pace back and forth, angry about his predicament.

Miguel then realized something. “Uh oh…” he murmured.

Héctor turned to the boy, raising an eyebrow. However, he soon let out a gasp as the boy pulled out a photo from his left pocket— _his_ photo, the one he took from back when Coco was just a little girl. “You took my photo off of the ofrenda?!” he yelled loudly, as he towered over the boy.

“It was an accident!” Miguel insisted, backing up a little.

Héctor took a step back as he shook his head in realization. _Should have known something was up after he appeared_ , he thought to himself. “Now I _know_ why the machine said my photo wasn’t up, it was because you had it with you!” He turned to the clerk, placing his hand on the desk as he asked, “Is there a way to send him back?” He sounded a little desperate, but what person wouldn’t be after finding out that their grandson had plucked their photo from its place on the family’s ofrenda?

“Well, Señor Rivera,” the clerk chuckled nervously, “since it is a family curse, the way to undo said curse is to give the boy your blessing!”

Héctor’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at Miguel, not entirely convinced that it would work.

“That’s it?” Miguel questioned.

“Everything should go back to normal after you get your family’s blessing,” the clerk told him. “But you _gotta_ do it by sunrise!”

“What happens at sunrise?” Miguel asked, raising his arms curiously.

Julio gasped as he saw the boy’s right hand, a finger already turning into bone. “Híjole, _your hand!_ ”

Miguel looked at his right hand, gasping in fear as he saw his bony finger. He moved it a bit, before he nearly fainted. Thankfully, Julio had caught him in time.

“Whoa, Miguel,” he said as he gently slapped the boy awake. “Can’t have you fainting on us.”

Héctor was now concerned. He had to get the boy back home, _fast_ —Miguel was only twelve; it wasn’t his time yet to join the rest of the family. “Is there any way we can send him back home now?”

“Yes,” the clerk answered. He got up from his seat as he searched the floor. He stopped at the ground near the gem of Rosita’s dress. “ _Aha!_ ” He looked up at the woman, chuckling a little. “Perdón, Señora.”

Rosita tittered as he plucked a marigold petal from the hem of her dress. The clerk then handed it over to Héctor.

“Now, you look at the living and say his name,” he instructed the seventy-five year-old.

“Miguel,” Héctor stated simply, looking at his grandson.

“Now say, ‘I give you my blessing,’” the clerk told him, gesturing at the boy.

“I give you my blessing,” Héctor said to the boy. His gaze turned to the petal for a moment as it began to glow.

Miguel brightened at the sight, but his great-great grandfather was far from finished.

“I give you my blessing to go home,” he continued, as he began to take a few steps closer. The glow of the marigold surged. “To put my photo back on the ofrenda…” Each added condition made the petal glow brighter. He delivered it as a scolding, but the boy kept nodding regardless. “And to _never touch a single instrument ever again!_ ”

The petal surged one last time. Miguel’s eyes widened as he shook his head. “What?!” He looked at the clerk. “He can’t do that, can he?”

“Technically, since he is your grandpa, he can add any condition he wants,” the clerk responded. “There’s nothing stopping him from doing so, after all.”

Miguel rolled his eyes as he let out a sigh. He frowned, pouting a little. “Fine.”

“Then you hand the petal to Miguel,” the clerk told Héctor.

Héctor had a small smirk on his face as he held the petal right in front of his grandson. While a part of him did feel guilty, he knew that he couldn’t let the boy indulge in some musical fantasy. Music had torn the family apart long ago—he wouldn’t let that happen again. Especially not when he looked so much like—

He snapped out of his thoughts as Miguel reached out and grabbed the petal, surprised to see the boy engulfed in more marigold petals as he was sent home.

Back in the mausoleum, Miguel let out a gasp as he looked around. He felt his legs, and laughed a little as he realized that he was back in the Land of the Living. He ran over to the window and looked out. “No skeletons!” he laughed again, relieved as he moved his finger. Then, his gaze shifted back to the guitar as he smiled mischievously.

He quickly grabbed the guitar as he began to run. “Mariachi Plaza, here I come—”

As he took two steps forward, he appeared back in the clerk’s office in another flash of the marigold whirlwind, without the guitar.

The family turned, shocked to see him again so soon.

Miguel realized his hands were still in the guitar-holding position, and quickly put them down.

“ _Two_ _seconds_ , chamaco!” Héctor yelled in exasperation, walking over to the boy quickly. “Two seconds, and you’re back to stealing that guitar!” He put his hands over his face, rubbing his temples. “What am I going to do with you?”

“But Papá Héctor, this isn’t fair! It’s my life and _mine_ alone! You’ve already lived yours!” Miguel retorted. He grabbed another petal, marching over to Julio. “Papá Julio, I ask for your blessing.”

Julio shook his head and pulled his hat down.

“Tía Rosita?” Miguel held the petal out to his great-great aunt.

She pulled her hair over her face as she shook her head.

“Óscar?”

The elder twin pulled his brother in front of him. He had seen his older brother’s fury once, and he certainly never wanted it to be directed towards him _ever._

“Felipe?”

The younger twin hid behind his brother. Héctor was a man who took nothing from _nobody_ —not even his younger brothers.

“Tía Victoria?”

She simply shook her head. While her abuelito could be strict sometimes, he wasn’t without a reason—as a child, she had seen him go through so much, just to keep his family together and to provide for them. She wasn’t going to just push that all aside, and allow her great-nephew to end up like her abuelito’s wife had.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is, chamaco,” Héctor said softly as he approached the boy. “You either do this my way, or you stay here.”

“Do you really hate music _that_ much?” Miguel questioned, as he turned to his great-great grandfather.

“I _won’t_ let you go down the same path she did!” Héctor jerked his hand in disapproval. “She _abandoned_ the family to play music—I would rather relive my death all over again than to see you end up in her shoes!”

Miguel dropped the petal as an idea came into his mind. He dug into his pockets, holding both the photo and the letter in his hands. “Same path she did…” he murmured. “She went to perform with Ernesto, who became a star, and he’s family…”

Victoria walked up to the boy, attempting to put her hand on his left shoulder. “Por favor, listen to your Papá Héctor.”

“He’s just looking out for you,” Óscar told him, placing a hand on the boy’s right shoulder.

“Be reasonable,” Rosita said, placing her hand on his back.

Miguel backed away from his family as he moved towards the door. “Con permiso, I… need to visit the restroom,” he lied. “Be right back!” He quickly saw himself out of the room, while the rest of the family stood there in shock.

“Uh, should we tell him that there are no restrooms in the Land of the Dead?” the clerk asked.

Héctor shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “He already knows that. He was merely trying to make an excuse to run off.” He shook his head, thinking to himself, _What am I going to do with that boy and his attitude?_ He turned to his family and said, “Venga. We need to find that boy, and send him back home soon.”

The others nodded, and they soon followed him out of the room.

* * *

Miguel hustled down the staircase with Dante. Once on the ground floor, they huddled beneath the staircase. The twelve year-old looked to the upper floor, seeing his dead family members talking to a patrolwoman. From what he could make out, Óscar seemed to be asking the patrolwoman if she happened to see a boy around his height. The patrolwoman then picked up her walkie-talkie. Miguel scoped the ground floor and spied a revolving door exit. “Vámonos,” he whispered to Dante. He put up his hood, tightening it to a tiny eye hole, before heading out, with the stray xolo padding after him.

“We got a family looking for a living boy,” the patrolwoman said to her walkie-talkie.

“If I wanna be a musician, I’ll need a musician’s blessing,” Miguel said as he and Dante made their way to the exit. “I gotta find Tío Ernesto—or at the very least, if not him, then his sister.”

Just as he was getting closer to the exit, he was stopped by a patrolman.

“Hold it, muchacho,” the patrolman said.

Miguel’s hoodie loosened, revealing his living face.

The patrolman gasped as he frantically grabbed for his walkie-talkie. “I’ve found that living boy!”

A large family then passed between Miguel and the officer, chatty, arms full of offerings.

“Uh, whoa,” the patrolman said as he tried to get past. “Excuse me, excuse me folks! Excuse me—”

Once the family cleared, the boy was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

In a nearby corridor, Miguel and Dante hid from the patrolman. But soon, Dante wandered off to inspect a side room.

“No, no — Dante!” Miguel whispered, before he followed the dog to the Department of Corrections. When he caught up to the dog, he overheard an exchange in a nearby cubicle. He peered into a window as he saw an officer interrogating the woman he’d seen earlier, back at the entrance.

“…disturbing the peace,” the officer rambled, “fleeing an officer, falsifying a unibrow…”

“Of all the silly laws I’ve heard of, how in the world is _that_ illegal?” the woman asked.

“Because too many people try to impersonate Señora Kahlo just so they can sneak into luxurious parties and the like,” the officer explained. “And while you’re not exactly as shallow as those impersonators, you’ve still got to clean up some of your act, amiga.”

“Amiga?” the woman repeated. Soon, she was overcome with joy at the very word. “Oh, that is so sweet of you to say! No one’s ever called me that in _such_ a long time, and…” She put her hands over her chest as she got a little misty. “I wasn’t able to cross the bridge since my photo wasn’t put up on any ofrenda, so I’ve been having a bit of a hard time. I could really use an amigo right now.” She leaned towards the officer a bit. “And amigos help one another out, right? So, if you could put in a good word for me and help me across the bridge, I’ll do you a favor.” She glanced at a poster of De la Cruz. “Are you a fan of De la Cruz? Because he and I knew each other a long time ago—we were the best of friends, practically! Maybe, I could arrange for you to meet him backstage at his Sunrise Spectacular show?”

Miguel perked up at the mention of Ernesto de la Cruz.

“I should lock you up for the rest of the holiday,” the officer began, “but… frankly, I’ve got more important things to deal with, like visiting my living family. So I’ll let you off with a warning.”

The woman sighed. “Can I at least get my costume back? I have to return it to a friend.”

“Um, sorry, Señorita, but no can do,” the officer replied.

Her eyes narrowed. In a huff, she exited the room, slamming the door behind her. “Hijo de puta,” she grumbled.

Miguel followed the woman into the hallway. “Hey,” he said, as he tried approaching her from behind. “ _Hey!_ Do you actually know De la Cruz?”

“Why do you care—” the woman began, before she turned around and saw the living boy. She gasped. “You’re alive, and yet here somehow!”

“Shhh!” Miguel shushed her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a nearby phone booth to avoid suspicion. “Yeah, I’m alive. And if I want to get back home, I’ll need Ernesto de la Cruz’s blessing.”

“Why Ernesto, of all people?” the woman asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He’s my great-great grandmother’s brother—my great-great-great uncle,” Miguel answered.

The woman backed up against the walls of the booth as she heard this. “ _What?_ He’s your great-great-great _uncle?_ ” Then, she paused, placing a hand under her chin. “Wait a minute…” She glanced at the boy for a moment, before looking up at the ceiling in deep thought. The resemblance between the child and Ernesto was definitely there, but still, it was hard to believe that Ernesto had a biological sister. After all, she’d known him back in the orphanage, and there he had told her that the only thing he remembered about his family was vivid memories of his mother and his father’s surname. Then again, his tendencies to have frequent one night stands—which resulted in him fathering a _lot_ of illegitimate kids, she bet—had to have come from somewhere. _Like father, like son_ , she thought to herself. Then, she gasped as she realized that the boy was heading to the Land of the Living. “You’re going back, right?”

 _Maybe I should just do this by myself_ , Miguel thought. “You know what, maybe this isn’t such a good id—”

She placed her hands on his shoulders suddenly. “No, niñito, listen: I can help you, and you can help me! We can help each other out!” She then led him out of the phone booth, a huge smile on her face.

“Mucho gracias, Señorita…?” Miguel trailed off for a moment, waiting for her to tell him her name. If they were going to be doing a favor for one another, he might as well know her name.

“Imelda,” she said, extending her hand out for him to shake.

He took her hand, shaking it. “I’m Miguel,” he told her, grateful to meet someone who was actually willing to hear him out for once.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his family hurrying down a staircase. For a brief second, he made eye contact with Héctor.

“Vamos rápido!” the twelve year-old yelled, grabbing Imelda’s risk as he dragged her to the exit, away from his family.

They burst out of the door, rushing down the stairs.

Imelda wriggled her wrist, until she was able to finally yank her arm out of the boy’s grasp. “Hold up, chiquito!” she huffed, taking a few breaths in and out.

The boy waited for her, slightly fearful and a little impatient.

After a few minutes, she joined him in running once more, and they disappeared into a dense crowd along with Dante.

Moments later, the dead Riveras burst from the doors.

Héctor scoured the crowd for Miguel. “Dios mio… he’s going to get himself into so much trouble…” _Looks like I’ll need some help from my spirit guide_ , he thought as he looked up to the sky, before he put his hands over his mouth as he called out, “Pepita, ven aquí!”

Soon, a large winged jaguar landed in front of him. He pat her forehead, whispering, “Good girl.”

Pepita was the only thing from his wife that he fully acknowledged in a positive manner at this point. She had once been a small, grey cat—a gift for their fourth year wedding anniversary. When his wife left, Pepita would often curl up at his feet and purr—even letting Coco play with her sometimes, to ease the pain from the abandonment. She had been his companion in both life, and in death.

He turned to the family. “Who has that petal Miguel held?”

Victoria stepped forward with a marigold petal in her hand. She calmly approached her grandfather’s alebrije, holding the petal out. “Are you sure we’ll be able to find him before sunrise, Abuelito?” she questioned Héctor.

He nodded at his granddaughter, smiling. “Sí,” he responded. “Pepita has never failed me before, just like I have never failed you, no?”

Victoria smiled, while Pepita sniffed the petal.

The alebrije’s head darted, narrowing in on the scent. She then took to the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was a bit interesting to write for me. I kinda wanted to make Héctor sound a bit familiar to his canon self while also keeping him very much like the "patriarch" figure I set him up as. You still have him calling Miguel "chamaco" (though it's not as enthusiastically as it was in canon, it’s more of a scolding parent like thing), and that he’s a bit softer than Imelda was. And more reflective, with the whole "resemblance" thing.  
> And yeah, like in canon, Miguel still has priorities with seeing Ernesto, because children tend to idolize famous folks more than family sometimes. As for Victoria and the twins, they’ll most likely have a bit more lines/expansion than they did in canon. Not a lot, but definitely more than their small, short appearances.  
> Also, yay, Imelda is finally properly introduced! I loved writing her in all honesty, because I love incorporating some of her canon traits (like her grudges and sour puss attitude when she doesn't succeed well) while also being a little divergent for this AU's sake. And yes, the reason why the rating was changed is partially because of her dirty mouth and mind. But in my girl’s defense, she’s 24 and has been through a LOT. XD  
> As for the "Ernesto grew up in an orphanage alongside Imelda" thing, let’s just say it becomes very revelant later on as the story progresses.  
> P.S.: like the little nickname I came up with for Imelda to call Miguel? "Chiquito" is little one in spanish, though geared towards boys obviously. It's like another form of "chamaco" in a way. :D


	6. v. "la bikina"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I’m tempted to change the title to reflect better for the whole story’s theme, but then I realize that I literally have nothing else in mind. So the only thing I can do is change the summary slightly, and apologize for the slightly misleading title of the fic. 
> 
> Anyway, we get to see Imelda and Miguel chat it up a bit in this chapter, along with Ceci, Frida, Diego and Gustavo. 
> 
> Oh, and fair warning: the dirty "humor" and language kind of escalate near the end of the chapter. Perdóname.

In an underpass tunnel, Miguel sat on a wooden crate while Imelda used her finger to carefully smudge black and white shoe polish on the boy’s face.

“Hold still, chiquito,” Imelda said softly, as she tried to make the child look like a skeleton. “Look up until I’m finished.”

The boy complied, and after a few minutes, she was soon finished with applying the shoe polish.

She pulled out a small mirror, opening it up as she showed the boy the end results. “You are now officially _un esqueleto_. Dead as a doornail.”

“Wow,” Miguel gasped as he stared at his reflection.

Imelda then put the mirror away. “Now listen, Miguel,” she began, “the Land of the Dead runs on memories. If people remember you in a positive manner, your photo is put up and you are able to cross the bridge, thus being able to visit your family on Día de los Muertos.” She then frowned. “Unless you have terrible luck, like me.”

“No one put up your photo,” Miguel remarked. He didn’t have to guess, as he had overheard her mentioning her situation to the officer prior to their ‘meeting.’ “How come?”

Imelda paused for a moment, tensing up a little at his question. Her death was such a tough subject to talk about, as she still couldn’t exactly pin down the cause of her death—it definitely had something to do with the food she ingested, but there was still that doubt that lingered within her, because the tarts had been just _fine_ for Ernesto. Either way, she had died too young, during an attempt to get back home to her husband and daughter. And of course, with all the years that passed, her husband soon grew bitter towards her—and the moment she had approached him after his death, he had made it very clear that she was not welcome back into _his_ family. Now, she was nearing the final death, and it seemed as though only this child could help her out—but she couldn’t tell him. It would only put too much pressure on his shoulders, and stress him out.

“I don’t like talking about it,” Imelda finally answered. “You’re too young to understand, anyhow.” She reached into her pockets, pulling out an old picture. “All you need to know is that _you_ can change my fate, by putting up my photo.” She gave the picture to the twelve year-old, smiling a bit.

Miguel unfolded the picture. In the photo was a young woman with her hair in a lower braided bun, wearing a plain dress and grinning. “You didn’t change much, from the looks of this photo,” he commented. Indeed, she looked graceful, yet there was something that seemed oddly familiar about her… he just couldn’t put his finger on it yet.

“Muy hermoso, ey?” Imelda batted her eyelashes a bit as she grinned.

“So, you’ll get me to my great-great-great uncle, and when he gives me his blessing, I’ll put your photo up on the ofrenda?” he asked, reciting the plan.

Imelda nodded excitedly. “Yes! You’re such a brilliant boy!” She then put a finger up. “But there’s a small little detail you should know: De la Cruz is not a man that is easy to approach. And I have to cross that bridge _tonight_. So, I must ask: do you have any other family members around here that are easier to reach? Like a grandfather, aunt or even a distant cousin of some sorts? Or do you know where your great-great grandmother might be, or the place she’d most likely visit?”

“I don’t know my great-great grandmother at all, honestly,” Miguel admitted, slightly embarrassed. “She probably lives with Tío Ernesto, though. And Tío Ernesto is the only family I have here who can give me the blessing.”

“Seriously?” Imelda’s eyebrows furrowed. She was a bit skeptical. This kid couldn’t just have only _two_ relatives in the Land of the Dead, there had to be others. “Are you telling me that your family is filled to brim with supercentenarians? Because otherwise, there’s got to be more relatives out there waiting for you.”

“ _ONLY_ those two—De la Cruz being out there for _sure_ ,” Miguel lied. He couldn’t tell her about his other dead relatives. If he did, she’d probably drag him back to them, and then they’d try to force him to give up his dream of becoming a musician. “But if you aren’t willing to help me out, I’ll just search for him myself.”

He began to march out of the alley, whistling for Dante to follow him. Imelda quickly ran after him, grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him around to face her.

“Alright, alright, chiquito!” she sighed. “I’ll help you get to your great-great-great uncle.”

* * *

Through the bustling streets, the two made their way along a pedestrian path.

“This won’t be an easy task,” Imelda warned the boy. “He’s a famous musician—he only has _so_ much time on his hands.” She noticed that the boy wasn’t paying much attention to what she was saying, as he was staring at her right leg. “Hey, chiquito!” She snapped her fingers in his face. “Are you even listening to me?”

Miguel snapped out of it quickly as he looked back up at her. “I’m sorry, it’s just… how did you get your bones broken to the point where you had to use _duct tape_ to keep them together?”

“Let’s just say I came across a couple of accidents during one of my attempts to cross the bridge,” she answered slowly.

“ _Yikes_ ,” he murmured. “Sorry about that…”

“Don’t be,” she replied, with a wave of her hand. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine for failing to cross the bridge.”

Miguel bit his lip as she said that, wondering what could have happened to her in life that caused death to be so cruel to her. She seemed like a nice person. True, she wasn’t as open or peachy compared to his Tía Rosita, but still… her attitude probably stemmed from her rough experiences in the afterlife. He was certain that beneath those bones, was a metaphorical heart of gold. It would just take some time to show.

He then noticed a billboard advertising “Ernesto de la Cruz’s Sunrise Spectacular”, while “Remember Me” blared from attached speakers.

“Whoa, Tío Ernesto’s hosting the Sunrise Spectacular!” Miguel gasped.

Imelda scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Ay, ay, ay… every year, your Tío puts on that awful show to mark the end of Día de los Muertos.”

“Can you get us in?” the twelve year-old questioned her.

“Well, uh…” she trailed off, unsure of how to respond to the boy’s question.

“You said you could help me!” Miguel pointed out.

“Yes, but I never said I was a miracle worker, niñito,” Imelda responded, with a shrug.

He gave her a withering look.

“Calm down, chiquito,” she told him. “Come, I’ll get you to your Tío…”

She then began to walk away. Miguel looked on, confused a bit. “But how?” he asked.

She turned to him, with a grin on her face. “I happen to know where he has his rehearsals.”

* * *

At a warehouse, beneath windows was a staircase. Imelda grabbed Miguel’s hand, leading him up the stairs to an open window. She let go of the boy’s hand as she went through the window, into a costume room. The boy went in after her, trailing behind a bit.

The only other person in the costume room was a seamstress with short, curly red hair, glasses and a blue dress. She appeared to be working on a costume.

“Hola, Ceci,” Imelda greeted the seamstress, sounding a bit nervous. “How are you today?”

“Hola,” Miguel murmured quietly. He stood a few inches from Imelda, as he was unsure of where this was going.

Ceci stopped working in her costume for a moment, as she turned to Imelda. She stared at the other woman for a while, before she asked, “Where is the dress, Imelda?”

“I – the dress?” Imelda stammered.

“You said you’d return it after borrowing it for a while,” Ceci replied. Her eyebrows then furrowed. “What happened to my dress?”

“Look, I – I’m sorry, Ceci, but I lost the dress,” Imelda apologized.

Ceci’s eyes widened. “You _what?_ ”

“They confiscated it from me after another failed attempt to cross the bridge,” Imelda explained. “Lo siento mucho, Cecilia – I tried getting it back, but that _cabrón_ of an officer wouldn’t give it back!”

Ceci let out a loud sigh as she shook her head. “You know what? It’s fine. I’ll just try to make a spare one since I’m a Frida short now, in addition to the thirty-nine other dancers I have to dress up…”

“I’m sorry, this is all my fault—”

“—it’s fine, Imelda! Don’t blame yourself for this.”

As the two conversed, Dante began to wander away from the costume area.

Miguel noticed this and began to chase after the dog. “Dante!” 

He chased the dog through the large warehouse, divided into different artists' workspaces. He passed paper-maché scupltures, giant paper cut out banners, and a skeleton posing nude for a painter.

"Wait…" He glanced at the painter, his eyes widening as he recognized the man. "You're – you're Diego Rivera!  _The_ Diego Rivera!"

The painter looked at the boy for a moment, before smiling a little. "Yes, I am." 

"I've heard so much about you from my classmates," the boy began to ramble, excited to see such a revolutionary man in real life. "They told me how you created one of the first paintings of  _La Catrina_ , and your passionate romance with—" 

The boy was cut off by Dante biting the ends of his jeans, dragging him off before he could continue gushing about the painter. 

Diego watched as the xolo and the boy disappeared, a little amused. "Hmm," he murmured, "perhaps they will be the subject of my next painting. Frida will certainly  _love_ the xolo."

Meanwhile, Dante continued to drag Miguel until an alebrije monkey jumped out at Dante. The xolo let go of Miguel as he whimpered, while the alebrije began to ride him, tormenting him.

The twelve year-old hustled after the dog. "Dante, no! Ven acá!" 

The monkey then jumped on the shoulder of Frida Kahlo, who stood in front of a rehearsal stage. Miguel reined in Dante just in time as she turned to face them.

"You!" she gasped. "How did you get in here?"

Miguel tried to stay composed, but it was hard considering that he was facing the _real_ Frida Kahlo, a Mexican revolutionary and an icon. "Perdóname, Señora Kahlo, I was just following my dog—"

Frida's eyes went wide when she saw Dante. She kneeled and took his head in her hands. "Oh, the mighty xolo dog! Guider of wandering spirits!" She took a closer look at Miguel. "And whose spirit have you led to me?"

"I don't think he's a spirit guide," Miguel said bluntly. 

“Ah, ah, ah – the alebrijes of this world can take on many forms,” Frida explained. “They are as mysterious as they are powerful…” To demonstrate, her monkey’s patterns swirled, and he opened his mouth to breathe a blue fire. He fumbled at the end with a chesty cough.

Then, they looked to Dante, who was chewing on his own leg.

Frida turned back to Miguel. “Or maybe he’s just a dog,” she concluded. She then guided him towards the rehearsal stage. “Come! I need your eyes!”

She sat him down on a little seat. “You are the audience.” She clapped her hands, causing the stage to go completely dark. “Darkness, and from the darkness… a giant _papaya!_ ”

Lights came up on a giant papaya prop.

“Dancers emerge from the papaya,” Frida continued, “and the dancers are all me!”

Leotarded, unibrowed dancers crawled around the sides of the mesh papaya. Behind the papaya was an even larger half-finished mesh sculpture.

“And they go to drink from the milk of their mother who is a cactus, but is also me. And her milk is not milk, but tears.” Frida turned back to Miguel, asking, “Is it too obvious?”

“I think it’s just the right amount of obvious?” Miguel replied, a little unsure of what he could add. After all, he was merely a kid, not a well-accomplished artist like Señora Kahlo. “Umm… maybe it could use some music?” He thought for a moment, before something came to him. “Oh! What if you did, like, _doonk-doonk-doonk-doonk_ …”

Inspired, Frida snapped her fingers, cueing some musicians who began to play the tune.

“And then it could go _dittle-ittle-dittle-ittle-dittle-ittle-dittle-ittle_ — _WHAAA!_ ” Miguel then suggested.

The violins followed, a trombone then puncturing.

“And… what if everything was on fire?” Frida suggested. She then threw her arms up in the air as she exclaimed, “Yes! Fire everywhere!”

The dancers gasped and looked at eachother, now concerned.

Frida looked back at Miguel, smiling. “Inspired!” She leaned in. “You… you have the talent of an artist!”

Miguel brightened at hearing the comment. _She thinks I’m talented just like an artist…just like Tío Ernesto_.

Frida turned back to the rehearsal. “The dancers exit, the music fades, the lights go out!”

A silhouette rose from a trap door. Miguel leaned forward in anticipation.

“And Ernesto de la Cruz rises to the stage!”

A spotlight shone on the silhouette, revealing it to be just a mannequin.

“Huh?” Miguel was confused. Where was his great-great-great uncle? Why wasn’t he at the rehearsal for his own grand performance?

“He does a couple of songs, the sun rises, everyone cheers—”

Miguel hustled up to Frida. “Excuse me, but where’s the _real_ De la Cruz?”

Frida rolled her eyes. “Ernesto doesn’t do rehearsals,” she said, sounding a bit miffed. “He’s too busy hosting that fancy party at the top of his tower.” She gestured at a large window to a grand estate lit up in the distance, atop a steep hill.

Suddenly, Imelda rounded the corner, and ran up to Miguel. “There you are, chiquito!” She placed her hands on his shoulders as she began to pull him away. “Don’t run off like that! You scared me,” she scolded him, albeit in a gentle manner. “You shouldn’t bother the celebrities, they need to focus on their work…”

Miguel wouldn’t be wrangled. He pulled away from her grasp. “You said Tío Ernesto would be here, but he’s not! He’s halfway across town, throwing some big party.”

“That _puta madre!_ ” Imelda hissed. “What kind of idiota is he, not showing up at his own rehearsal?”

“If you two were the ‘best of friends’, how come he didn’t invite you?” Miguel questioned. _And why do you constantly speak so negatively about him and his work?_ he added in his mind, though he never spoke aloud. His parents had always said not to acknowledge ‘dirty language’, and so he tried to ignore her vulgar words.

“Why didn’t he invite _you_ if you’re his great-great-great _nephew?_ ” Imelda retorted. She then walked away from the twelve year-old, towards the musicians. “Hey, Gustavo! Do you happen to know anything about De la Cruz’s party?”

Gustavo turned to her. “It’s the hot ticket,” he answered. “But if you’re not on the guest list, then you’re never getting in, Bikina…”

The other musicians turned, laughing and pointing at her as they exclaimed, “Hey, it’s La Bikina! _Bikinita!_ ”

Imelda’s eyes narrowed at the nickname. “Haha, how _hilarious_ ,” she said sarcastically.

“ _La Bikina?_ ” Miguel asked, confused at the nickname.

Gustavo turned to Miguel. “Oh, this lady is very well known!” he said with a laugh. “After she died from food poisoning, she spent all of her years waiting for her husband—and yet, when he died due to old age, he shunned her when she tried to approach him. She wasted so much time—so many years—mourning over her lost love, that _Bikina!_ ”

Miguel looked at Imelda, noticing that her eyes were now glistening with tears of frustration.

She bit her lip, before she then shot back, “It’s not like I’m a psychic! How was I supposed to predict what would happen that day?”

“Perhaps.” Gustavo shrugged. “But honestly, it’s not like it would’ve worked out anyway—I mean, can you _imagine_ the reunion night? Intercourse with him would be like fucking a _chorizo!_ ”

The musicians burst out into laughter, while Miguel gulped down an acid reflux. Being twelve, he had only recently been educated a few months back of the act adults did; the “corking of the onion”. He gagged internally at the memory, as it was all so gross to him. He glanced at Imelda again, giving her a look of pity. She didn’t deserve to be treated this horribly.

Imelda, on the other hand, felt utterly humiliated and angry. She took a step forward, slapped Gustavo across the face without any hesitation, causing him and the other musicians to gasp in shock. “ _How dare you?_ ” she hissed angrily. “How dare you speak of my personal life as if you know _anything_ about it—as if you have a right to poke fun at me, when you know absolutely _nothing!_ ” She then gestured to Miguel. “And worst of all, you have the _nerve_ to say such nasty things in front of _un pequeño chiquito_ , soiling his innocent mind—and for what? Just so you can have a quick laugh?” She pointed at them all as she yelled, “Shame on you—all of you!”

The musicians looked at one another, ashamed at themselves. Soon, they all began to walk away, quietly murmuring some apologies.

“ _This_ is why I can’t stand musicians,” Imelda said to Miguel. She wiped her eyes quickly, before pointing at the group once more. “Musicians are nothing but a bunch of self-absorbed, cruel pendejos!”

“Hey,” Miguel spoke softly, offended by her comment. While he did appreciate her trying to preserve his ‘innocence’, it still stung a little how she referred to all musicians as bad. “I’m a musician.”

“You are?” Imelda questioned, a little surprised. He nodded, causing her to sigh. “Okay then… earlier today, I heard of a music competition at the Plaza de la Cruz—the winner gets to play at his party.”

Miguel’s wheels began turning.

“ _However_ ,” Imelda continued, “there are many competitors there. It’s not just a simple contest.”

The boy looked at his hands, which were progressing in their skeletal transformation. “I need to get my Tío’s blessing.” He looked up to her. “Do you happen to know where I can get a guitar?”

Imelda paused for a moment. “This may be the craziest thing you’ve ever done, chiquito,” she began, “ _but_ I do happen to know a man…”

* * *

Pepita swept across the sky, landing in a darkened corner of the underpass tunnel. She cast a shadow on the wall, then lurched into the light. She sniffed out a spot in the middle of the ground, finding a canister of shoe polish. She let out a low growl. 

The Riveras followed after her. 

“Found our chamaco yet, Pepita?” Héctor asked as he went up to his alebrije. He placed a hand on the scruff of her neck, rubbing it gently. “Have you found him?”

The alebrije breathed on the ground, revealing a footprint. It glowed for a moment. The family leaned in to inspect it. 

“A footprint!” Rosita gasped.

Julio kneeled down. He saw that it was a boot, with an “R” marked on the sole. “It’s a Rivera boot!”

“Size seven…” Óscar began.

“…and a half,” Felipe finished. 

“Pronated,” Victoria noted.

“Miguel!” Héctor exclaimed.

Pepita leaned forward and breathed again, and the glow spread to reveal a trail of footprints.

“Buen trabajo, Pepita!” Héctor rubbed the alebrije’s back, ruffling her feathers a bit. He grinned as he looked ahead. 

But before he could take a step forward, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, and saw Óscar. “Óscar?”

“Hermano,” Óscar began, sounding anxious, “when we find the boy, could you try not to be too hard on him?”

Héctor raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“He means, could you try to be a little less strict?” Felipe suggested nervously. 

“I know you’re trying to look out for him,” Óscar continued, “but maybe if you were a bit more calm, he’d be a little more willing to see eye to eye with you.”

Héctor was silent for a moment as he thought over his brothers’ words.  _ They’re right, if I try talking to Chamaco more calmly, he won’t run away, and that’ll make sending him home less harder…  _ “Alright,” he said, with a nod. “I’ll try.”

The twins smiled. 

The family then began to follow the footprints, continuing the search for the living boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little trivia for this chapter: "La Bikina" is a song that was composed by Mexican composer Rubén Fuentes in 1964, after he took a long walk on the beach. His son had told him that the women wearing bikinis should be called "bikinas". As for the song itself, it is about a woman who spends her nights crying over the man who left her, while not allowing anyone to console her. It was covered by Mexican youtuber Karol Sevilla for the Spanish dub of Coco, since the dubbing director must've realized how well the song fits Imelda in canon. (By the way, y'all should give Karol's cover of it a listen, it’s pretty great!)  
> Either way, it worked well in my head as an insult Gustavo would use, with Imelda being... well, Imelda. That, and I doubt any woman would find "Bikina" to be a compliment. Also, the Héctor/chorizo comment was honestly not planned at first, as I didn't think the adult/dirty humor would get THAT far, but then I realized it’s totally something Gustavo would say in canon probably, if it wasn’t a Pixar film geared towards small children. Besides, adults will be adults, and sometimes adults get pretty vulgar. Though it does make me wonder if I should change the rating again or not... XD  
> As for Ceci, I imagined she'd be way more lenient with Imelda than Héctor because Imelda is not as reckless as he is. Also, I always liked the idea of them being friends, but that’s just me I guess. And Imelda and Miguel's growing bond is gonna soon parallel the parent-child one Héctor and Miguel have in canon... because mother-son stuff warms my heart.  
> And with regards to the 'xolo' comment by Diego: Frida Kahlo's favorite dog was a xolo, hence her reaction to Dante in the film. And yeah, Diego's cameo is pretty small but hey, a cameo nonetheless.  
> Next, we'll be seeing Cheech, and maybe if I can, I'll squeeze in "Un Poco Loco"! :D


	7. vi. "everyone knows juanita"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? Another update so soon?  
> I couldn’t help myself. I’ve found myself very invested in this role swap AU. That, and I really, really wanted to get closer to “Un Poco Loco” because it’s my second favorite song in the film (the first being “Proud Corazon”).  
> Also, we continue down the path of mentions of the past, more subtle hints at stuff… even some flashbacks. The femur bit wasn’t included since I don’t see Imelda as the type of person to misplace people's bones, unlike Héctor.  
> Enjoy!

Miguel followed Imelda down a steep stairway. He looked at his bony knuckles, concerned.

“Why do you want to be a musician, anyway?” Imelda questioned the boy.

“Tío Ernesto was a musician,” he answered simply.

“Yes, he was,” she replied, sounding bitter. “He spent his whole life belting his voice out like a _burro_ for a bunch of strangers. Ugh, what a waste…” _Not even bothering to give me credit_ , she added silently. _Some friend! You think you know a guy…_

Before his rise to fame, he had once been so nice to her. In the orphanage, when they had first met, he stuck up for her when two bullies had been threatening her with nails. She had been nine, while he was fifteen—six years apart, and yet, that never stopped their friendship. When he had turned eighteen, she left the orphanage along with him, and they began to play music together as a duo of friends—they had been so close, to the point where they had called each other “hermano” and “hermanita”.

But then, things slowly went downhill after she had met the love of her life, and got married. Ernesto had begun to change a bit, and it didn’t take too long for her to notice the abhorrence he and her husband held for one another. There would be frequent arguments, which would only end when she’d step in. Things only got slightly better after her daughter was born.

But then, she and Ernesto had decided to tour together—and one night, they had some tart along with tequila, and then… she lost everything.

She lost everything, while Ernesto gained fame from _her_ songs, played on _her_ guitar—he had the fame, the fortune, the adoring fans, his own clique with all of the famous actors from the twentieth century; while she was being forgotten, and had nobody and _nothing_. Some "brother" he was.

“What do _you_ know?” Miguel mumbled. As he descended the staircase, De la Cruz’s distant glowing tower became obscured by old forgotten buildings. “So, how far is this guitar anyway?”

“We’re almost there,” Imelda responded. She jumped from the staircase, landing swiftly on the ground below, her body remaining intact with no bones scattered. “Come on, chiquito!” she called out to the boy, who followed after her.

She lead him through a stone archway. “Welcome to Shantytown, chiquito,” she whispered to him, smiling a little.

Inside the archway, a bunch of ratty skeletons huddled around a burning trash can, laughing raucously. They were gray and dusty, with a camaraderie about them. “Titi Imelda!!” they called out to the woman.

“These guys, such good amigos!” Imelda said, wrapping an arm around Miguel as she gestured towards the ratty skeletons.

“Imelda!” a ratty member called out.

“Hola, cousin!” Imelda greeted back, a wide grin on her face.

“Are these people a part of your family?” Miguel asked. “I thought yours never put up your photo because they resented you…”

“They’re not _biological_ family. We just call each other cousin, Tía, or Tío because we all had no photos on any ofrendas,” Imelda explained. “We’re all nearly forgotten.”

They approached three old ladies playing cards around a wooden crate. One of them looked up. “Imelda, mi sobrina!”

“Tía Chelo!” Imelda cried out. She shook each of the old ladies’ hands. “Qué bueno verte de nuevo!”

“En efecto,” Chelo said with a nod. “So, what brings you back here tonight?”

“I was wondering if Chicharron was around,” Imelda answered.

“He’s in the bungalow,” Chelo told her. “He’s been in a sore mood lately, but I think he’ll appreciate a visit from you.”

“Of course he will,” Imelda said. “Why wouldn’t he be looking forward to a visit from his little sobrina?”

* * *

Imelda entered the bungalow tent. She held the curtain open, so that Miguel and Dante could walk in.

The tent was cramped, dark and quiet. Piles were organized everywhere: stacks of old dishes, a drawer full of pocket watches, magazines and records.

 _The owner of this place must be an avid fan of collecting things_ , Miguel thought, before he stumbled back a bit, nearly knocking over a stack.

Imelda spied a hammock filled with old junk, a dusty hat on top. She lifted the hat, finding a solemn-looking Chicharron. “Buenas tardes, Chicharron!”

Chicharron smiled a bit. “Buenas tardes, Imeldita.”

The twenty-four year old smiled at the nickname. It had been given to her by the old man, after they had met. She could still remember that day very well.

_She had only been dead for a month when she had met him. She’d been exploring the Land of the Dead out of curiosity, when she bumped into a short man._

_He had stumbled back and fell, his hat covering his face. Feeling embarrassed, she helped him get back up, placing his hat on top of his head._

_“Lo siento, Señor,” she had apologized. “I didn’t mean to bump into you, I was just exploring the place.”_

_“Well, watch where you’re going next time,” the man grumbled, before he continued down his path._

_She observed him for a moment, before noticing that he lacked a femur. She followed him. As she caught up to him, she asked, “Are you looking for your femur, by any chance? If so, then I’d be glad to help.”_

_“Why do_ you _want to help me?” he asked, turning to face her._

_“It’s the least I can do to make things up to you,” she answered simply._

_He eyed her for a moment, then said, “Alright.”_

_As they continued walking, she introduced herself, “I’m Imelda.”_

_“Chicharron,” the short man told her. “Agradezco tu oferta para ayudar…Imeldita.”_

After they had found his femur, she decided to visit him at Shantytown, and they would talk about their situations—of past romances, family, being forgotten; the usual things. His nickname for her never really went away, and it had stuck ever since.

“So how are you, on this Día de los Muertos?” Imelda asked.

“Terrible,” Chicharron muttered. “I’ve been having this horrible feeling lately…” He stared at the edge of the hammock for a moment, before he looked back up at her. “How about you?”

“Um, well,” Imelda began, “I actually came here to ask you for a favor. You see…” She gestured to Miguel, who stood not to far across from them. “My friend, Miguel, and I need to borrow your guitar.”

“My prized, beloved guitar?” Chicharron asked, sitting up suddenly.

“We’ll bring it back right away, as soon as we’re done with it,” Imelda reassured him. She looked back at Miguel. “Won’t we, chiquito?”

Miguel nodded, yet Chicharron wasn’t entirely convinced.

“How can I be sure that you won’t lose it?” the old man sounded skeptical. “After all, there’s many people out there that wouldn’t hesitate to—” Suddenly, he weakened and collapsed in his hammock, a golden flicker flashing through his bones.

Imelda rushed forward. “Cheech! Estás bien, Tío?”

“I’m fading, Imeldita,” Chicharron replied. “That feeling I had earlier… this is it.” He looked to the guitar. “I don’t think I’ll be able to play that thing again, no matter how much I wanted to before. You and your friend can have it, on one condition.” He looked to her. “Play me a song.”

Imelda was surprised. “Tío Cheech, you know I don’t play anymore,” she protested. “The guitar is for Miguel, so he can—”

“ _Por favor_ ,” Chicharron pleaded. “I want to hear at least one song before I fade away for good."

Imelda bit her lip, before sighing. “Alright,” she murmured. She reached over him and took the instrument. “I’ll do it for you, Tío Cheech. Do you have a request for a specific song in mind?” She began tuning the guitar as she sat down near the hammock.

“You know what my favorite song is, Imeldita,” the old man whispered.

Imelda began a lovely, velvety tune. Chicharron smiled, while Miguel’s eyes widened at the young woman’s skill. Her voice was strong, yet soft and sweet; like a harp.

 _“Well, everyone knows Juanita,”_ she sang softly. _“Her eyes each a different color. Her teeth stick out, her chin goes in, and her…”_ She trailed off as she eyed Miguel. He was only twelve, he didn’t need to be exposed to such adult content. _“…watermelons, they roll on the floor.”_

Chicharron frowned. “Watermelons? _Really?_ ”

“Por el amor de Dios, there’s a child standing over there!” Imelda whispered, narrowing her eyes at him while she gestured to the boy. She then continued, _“Her hair is like a briar, she stands in a bow-legged stance. And if I were a little bit lucky, she’d possibly give me a chance!”_ As she finished the song, her voice dripped with passion at the final note.

Chicharron was filled with joy, feeling bright as ever. “Brings back memories,” he whispered, a small smile on his face. “Gracias, Imeldita…” His eyes finally closed for the last time, as he was finally at peace.

Imelda looked on, upset. She was about to lose yet another loved one—first, she had lost her parents as a child and was forced to live in an orphanage for years, then her husband had turned her away when she tried to reunite with him in death, she hadn’t been able to see her little girl in so many years, and now Chicharron was about to be claimed by the Final Death.

The edges of Chicharron’s bones began to glow. The light shone softly and beautifully. Then, the old man dissolved into dust.

Miguel looked on, shocked and worried.

Imelda stood up and grabbed a bottle of wine and a shot glass. She popped the cork off the bottle, then carefully poured wine into the shot glass. She placed the bottle down, before she lifted her glass in honor and drank the wine. Wine in general had always tasted bitter to her, yet today, it tasted just a bit more sour than before.

Finished with her drink, she placed the glass down next to another glass, which was full.

“What happened to him?” Miguel questioned her.

“He’s been forgotten,” Imelda answered. Then, she began to explain to him, “When there’s no one in the living world remembers you, you disappear from this one. It’s called ‘the Final Death.’”

“And where did his soul go, then?” Miguel felt concerned. Where did the souls of those who were forgotten in life go?

“No one knows,” she responded quietly.

Then, the boy had a thought. “Since I’ve met him, when I get back home… I could remember him, and then he’ll be okay.”

Imelda shook her head. “No, that’s not how things work around here, chiquito. Our memories must be passed down by those who actually knew us in life—in stories they pass down to their loved ones about us. But with no one left alive to pass down Chicharron’s memories… he’s gone, for good.”

Miguel was deep in thought for a moment. Would the same thing happen to Imelda, if her photo wasn’t put up soon? Would she fade, too, just like Chicharron? He hoped not. While she could be sour sometimes, she was still a nice companion; she was beginning to show her soft side, more and more by each passing minute.

She put her hand on his back, suddenly bright and merry. “It happens to us all, eventually,” she reassured him. “Don’t worry about it too much. You’ve got plenty of time.” Seeing the boy begin to smile, she then handed him the guitar. “Come on, pequeño de la Cruz, you’ve got a contest to show your talent off at.”

She threw open the curtain and left. Miguel looked at the glasses for a moment, then turned to follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact for those who are not familiar with spanish terms: "Titi" is an affectionate way of saying "Tía". I was inspired to use the term after remembering a story my mother told me, of a maternal great-aunt of mine who was — as described by my mother — as badass as Imelda, with the same "no nonsense" attitude as her. She even raised a bunch of kids by herself after she found a way to work to support her family; a true independent woman who didn’t need no man! As for "sobrina", it means niece. And "Imeldita" was just a cute nickname I liked. _And yes_ , I decided to use my own version of the "uncensored" edition (with "watermelons" being a metaphor for...well, to be blunt: "tatas") of the song used in this chapter. Why? Because Imelda having a secret dirty mind will never not be funny.  
> Next up is "Un Poco Loco"! I’m slightly tempted to make it entirely in spanish, mostly because I listened to the Spanish soundtrack version again and it’s just so good, you guys. Too good. But it all depends in the end, I guess.  
> Also, I realize how I've been writing a lot these past couple of chapters. Like this is the seventh chapter, and yet we're closer and closer to meeting De la Crud (who is going to be an even larger jerk than in canon). It's so weird. XD


	8. vii. "un poco loco"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here, we come across one of the best songs in this film, written entirely in Spanish because I can (btw, if you can't understand the lyrics, you can easily search up the translation online). Also, more Imelda and Miguel bonding. :D I love me some guardian-child relationship.  
> Oh, and just so no one gets confused:  
> Miguel's lyrics = bold  
> Imelda's lyrics = italics  
> Both = bolded italics

Imelda and Miguel hung off the back of a moving trolley. Miguel held her photo in his hands, scanning it, while Imelda played around a bit with the guitar’s strings as she hummed to herself.

“When you said you didn’t like musicians,” Miguel started, turning to her, “I would’ve never thought that you _were_ one.”

“How do you think your Tío and I got acquainted with one another?” Imelda asked, smiling at the boy. “We bonded through shared interests when I was nine, and he was fifteen. As we grew older, we played music together. Everything he knows today? I taught him.” She played a fancy riff, ending off on a beautiful note.

Miguel was shocked upon hearing her words. “No manches! You and Ernesto de la Cruz—the legendary musician _and_ a Mexican icon—played together?”

“ _Hah!_ You have a great sense of humor, niñito!” Imelda laughed at his words. She found it hard to believe that Ernesto was considered by many to iconic, when really, he didn’t put much effort into music at all. He put as much effort into music as he did with his many 'conquests', which was to say: none at all. He was about as talented as a donkey. “ _M_ _aybe_ his eyebrows could be considered iconic, although I don’t see it, but his music? Personally, I think it needs some major work.”

“You clearly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Miguel said, dismissing her comments.

The trolley arrived at the Plaza de la Cruz. As the two got off along with Dante, Miguel saw a big statue of Ernesto in the center. He stuffed Imelda’s photo into his pockets as they began walking.

“This is it: the Plaza de la Cruz!” Imelda said, before she handed the guitar to Miguel. “Well, chiquito, the show must go on!” They then headed towards a stage.

On stage, an emcee greeted her audience, “Bienvenidos a todos! Who’s ready for some música?”

The audience whooped.

“It’s the battle of the bands, amigos!” the emcee continued. “The winner gets to play for the maestro himself, Ernesto de la Cruz, at his fiesta tonight!”

The audience cheered, and Imelda nudged Miguel’s shoulder as they headed backstage.

* * *

Minutes passed, and many contestants had stepped forward and performed their act, each showing off their own unique talent. Meanwhile, Miguel and Imelda stood amongst the other contestants, awaiting the twelve year-old’s turn.

“So, did you plan on what song you’re going to play?” Imelda asked him, hoping he’d pick a classic or maybe something fresh and new.

“Definitely ‘Remember Me’,” Miguel replied, confidence in his tone. He was going to prove to the audience that he was Ernesto de la Cruz’s great-great-great nephew, and blow them away.

Imelda immediately clamped her hand over the fretboard as the boy had begun to pluck out the beginnings of the famous song. “Not that one!” she whispered. She was tired of hearing the melody, played over and over as if it were some romantic ballad. “ _Anything_ but that one.”

“But it’s his most famous song!” Miguel protested.

“Exactly,” Imelda said, a hint of disgust in her tone. “It’s _too_ popular.”

Elsewhere backstage, they noticed multiple other acts performing their versions of the song. Some made it sound operatic, some others made it sound tragic—one man even played a couple of water glasses to the tune.

Imelda turned to Miguel with a smug look on her face. “Need I say more?”

“Um…” Miguel pondered on what song to sing instead. _What other song is as good as ‘Remember Me’?_ he wondered. _Wait… there’s ‘Un Poco Loco’!_ “Oh, I know! What about ‘Un Poco Loco’?”

Imelda nodded excitedly, pleased by the boy’s choice. “Fantástico! That’s a perfect song!”

The stagehand then stopped by for a moment as he said to the boy, “De la Cruzcito? You’re on standby.” He looked at another band. “Los Chachalacos, you’re up next!”

An impressive banda group stepped onto the stage.

“Los Chachalacos!” the crowd yelled.

They burst into a mighty introduction, and the audience went wild. They were very good.

Miguel peeked at the frenzied stage from backstage. He felt nervously, and suddenly sick. He began to pace, fidgeting. _What if I mess this up? I need to prove that I’m worthy, and that I really am De la Cruz’s nephew…_

“Are you okay, chiquito?” Imelda asked, concerned for the child’s well-being. “Don’t worry too much. I’m sure that you’re a very good musician, and that you’ll do _asombroso._ ”

Miguel looked at her, then admitted quietly, “To tell you the truth, I’ve never performed before…”

“ _What?!_ ” Imelda was surprised, upon hearing that she’d been lied to. “But you said—”

“— _I am!_ ” Miguel cut her off. He was silent for a few seconds, before he then added, “I mean, I will be, once I win.”

“ _Ah, ah, ah!_ ” Imelda shook her head quickly. This plan was too dangerous. If he didn’t win, he wouldn’t be able to get Ernesto’s blessing, and of he didn’t get Ernesto’s blessing, he would be stuck here forever. _And I’ll be forgotten, and then he’ll be all alone…_ She placed her hands on his shoulders. “You _have_ to win this competition, Miguel. Your own life is at stake if you don’t win! And you’ve _never_ performed in front of _anyone_ before?!” She looked at his guitar. “…maybe I should take your place and do this for you, instead. That way, you’ll be—”

Miguel recoiled, clinging to the instrument as though it were a lifeline. “No, I need to do this myself,” he told her.

“Why is it that you have to do this alone?” Imelda questioned. “Why can’t you let me win for you?”

“If I have someone else go out there and play the song for me, how can I even call myself a musician?” Miguel pointed out. “I don’t want to just get De la Cruz’s blessing. I need to prove that I’m actually worthy of it.”

“Oh,” Imelda said, astonished by his little speech. He sounded so mature for his age, so smart. “That is such a brilliant, very beautiful statement…” she trailed off for a moment, looking into his eyes. He was truly being sincere. Despite her worries, she spoke to him softly, “Alright then, if you want to perform, then you’ll need to relax all your nerves first. Take a few deep breaths.”

Miguel complied, breathing in and out slowly.

“Move your body a little, show me that you can dance!”

She twirled a bit to demonstrate, then looked at the boy. He shimmied a little, making her grin a bit.

“Now, let out your best grito!” she encouraged him.

“My best grito?” He was a bit unsure about it. He hadn’t really tried belting out a grito at all, since it would’ve gotten him into trouble with his abuelita at home.

“Let it loose!” she urged him. “Belt it out to your heart’s content!” She then let out a loud, powerful grito. Once she finished, she said, “Now, it’s your turn.”

Uncertain, Miguel tried letting out a grito, only for his voice to falter in some parts. He frowned as he finished, feeling like he had failed miserably.

Dante whimpered at the sound, covering his ears with his paws.

“Oh, niñito…” Imelda looked at the kid sympathetically. He was trying his best, indeed. She only hoped that it would be enough, and that things would work out for him in the end.

On stage, Los Chachalacos wrapped up to a raucous applause.

“De la Cruzcito, you’re on now!” the stagehand called out.

“Miguel,” Imelda started, her voice still soft yet firm, “look at me.”

Miguel’s eyes focused on the stagehand as he continued to call out to him, “Come on, let’s go!”

“Miguel!” Imelda placed her hands on his shoulders again, turning him to face her. “Don’t stress yourself out. You have the talent—show them what you’re made of, and don’t hold back!”

The stagehand then pulled the boy away as he began to lead him to the stage.

“We have one more act, amigos!” the emcee announced.

Miguel looked at Imelda, still feeling a little anxious. Her words were encouraging—even inspiring—yet, he wondered if he could actually do it. If he could prove himself worthy _and_ make her proud. “Imelda…” he whispered, holding a hand out to her.

She smiled at him, then whispered back, “Make the crowd go wild, chiquito! And remember: I’ll always be rooting for you, no matter what!”

 _No matter what…_ Miguel smiled, beginning to feel more assured. _She’s right, I can do this!_

“Damas y caballeros,” the emcee began, “De la Cruzcito!”

The crowd applauded as Miguel was led onto the stage.

“That’s my boy!” Imelda cheered. Her face contorted with a mixture of encouragement and fear.

Miguel slowly took the stage, guitar in hand. Blinded by the lights, he squinted out at the audience, frozen stiff.

“Ay dios mio, he has stage fright!” Imelda whispered to Dante, filled with dread. She looked back at the boy. “Come on, chiquito, you can do this…”

 _Remember what Imelda said_ , the boy reminded himself. He began breathing in and out. _You can do this. Make the crowd go wild, and make her proud._

The crowd stared at him, waiting for the boy to begin his act. He looked at Imelda in the wing. She made eye contact with him, smiling and gesturing for him to begin.

He smiled, then looked back at the audience. He took another deep breath in, then let out a loud grito. The sound was full-throated and resonant. People in the audience began to whistle and whoop, while some returned the grito, and others applauded lightly.

The boy’s brows went up, and he began his guitar intro.

**Que el cielo no es azul,**

**Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!**

**Que es rojo dices tú**

**Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!**

**Ves todo al revés**

**Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!**

**Creo que piensas con los pies**

**Ay mi amor, ay mi amor!**

As the audience warmed up, so did Miguel. 

Imelda was filled with joy and pride. The boy was astounding, more so than she could ever imagine. 

**Tú me traes un poco loco,**

**Un poquiti-ti-to loco**

**Estoy adivinado,**

**Qué quieres y pa cuando**

**Y así estoy celebrando**

**Que me he vuelto un poco loco!**

Dante then grabbed Imelda by the torn hems of her dress, attempting to drag her onto the stage.

“No, I can’t go up there!” Imelda whispered, shaking her head frantically as she was pulled to the stage. She lightly swatted at the xolo, causing him to head backstage, but it was too late. Once she noticed that she was in the spotlight, she took a breath in before she began to skip across the stage, holding the hems of her dress while she danced to the sound of the guitar playing.

“For a dead woman, you sure know how to glide across the floor!” Miguel remarked, impressed by her dancing skills.

“And you’re very good, for a beginner!” Imelda responded, before she twirled and spun around, her head remaining in place as she did so.

Meanwhile, a ripple of glowing footprints led Pepita and the Rivera family to the edge of the audience.

Héctor stroked the fur on the back of Pepita’s neck gently, before he looked ahead. He could faintly hear the voice of his wife, amongst the excited whispering of the crowd. His metaphorical heart began to ache, as he remembered the days when they’d sing and dance together. The days she would play her guitar for him, when he was her muse, when she was actually there for him and Coco, when they were a happy family, before she—

He shook his head. _It’s all in the past_ , he told himself. _You can’t let it hurt you anymore. Just ignore the music. Ignore her._

He turned to his family and told them, “Miguel can’t be too far from here. Try to find him.”

“But what about you, Abuelito?” Victoria asked. “What will you do?”

“Once our chamaco is found, I’m going to have a talk with him,” Héctor answered. _There’s so many things that he needs to know_ , he silently added. _To understand why I’m doing this… it’s for his own good._

The rest of the family nodded, fanning out through the audience.

Héctor stood by his alebrije for a moment, as he began to breathe in and out. The music wasn’t loud, yet it wasn’t faint to the point where it was avoidable. 

And so, he began to wander out of the plaza, with Pepita trailing behind him. 

Back on stage, Imelda continued to skip, spin and twirl. For the first time in what felt like forever, she was actually having fun and enjoying herself. Oh, how she had missed the days when she’d dance and sing at the plaza back in Santa Cecilia. 

The audience hooted in approval of her dancing, while she had begun to sing.

_Chiflado tú me vuelves,_

_Y eso está un poco loco_

_Tú mente que despega…_

Miguel beamed at Imelda. He was glad to have a friend like her to support him and help him out. Maybe, after he returned home, he would get to see her again next year, on Día de los Muertos. 

**Tú siempre con ideas…**

Then, they began to sing together in unison, causing the crowd to go even more wild than before. 

_**Con mi cabeza juegas,** _

_**Todo es** _

_**Un poco loco!** _

They both twirled around, before they let out their own loud gritos.

The audience started clapping in time with the song, while Dante let out a howl.

“We’re looking for a living boy,” Tío Felipe began as he and his brother stood by a man.

“He’s about twelve years-old,” Óscar continued. “Have you seen him?”

The man shook his head.

“Have you seen a living boy?” Rosita asked two women. “My great-great nephew—he ran off, and we’re trying to find him so we can send him back.”

Just like the man from before, the women also shook their heads.

  _ **Un poqui-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-to loco!**_

Imelda and Miguel danced around each other, before the twenty-four year-old then grabbed the boy and held him in her arms as they finished the song.

The audience erupted into a loud applause.

Once Imelda put Miguel down, he smiled, soaking in the moment and the cheering. He felt so proud of himself—so happy to have finally performed in front of an audience, just as he had always wanted to. He felt like a real musician.

“Hey,” Imelda said as she placed a hand on his shoulder, “you were _maravilloso!_ I’m so proud of you, chiquito!” She then hugged him, as though he were the son she never had—the child she never got to raise.

Miguel returned the hug. He swelled with joy, knowing that he had made her proud. He felt like a son who had just been rewarded by his mother for an achievement.

Then, he looked back at the audience. His joy disappeared as he spotted Óscar and Felipe talking to a stranger. He looked over and saw Rosita talking to someone else. He looked to the stage right, and to his horror, he saw Julio talking to the emcee.

“Otra, otra, otra!” the audience chanted, wishing for an encore.

Panicked, Miguel grabbed Imelda’s arm and pulled her off the stage. She tried pulling back, but to no avail as she was dragged backstage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for this chapter! Boy, is the next one going to break my heart...  
> On the plus side though, we'll be seeing a flashback from Héctor's past. So, yay, I guess?


	9. viii. seperation and confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I love Imelda and Miguel’s mother-son relationship  
> Also me: well, all good things have to come to an end soon I suppose  
> Basically... this chapter hurt a LOT to write. The separation and confrontation scenes always were so intense for me when watching the film. On one hand, they shed light on Héctor and Imelda’s sides a bit, but on the other, Miguel has to run away from his own family because of his idolization of De la Crud. :(  
> But at least I was able to throw in a flashback, while I tried keeping at least a bit true to the characters. Still, I'm sad that the cute moments had to end. Argh.

"Miguel, what are you doing?" Imelda asked the boy, confused by his actions. "And what was that all about?"

"We have to get out of here," Miguel said, his voice filled with anxiety. If he didn't leave soon, he would probably end up running into one of his family members, and then they'd get Papá Héctor to send him back home—and he couldn't go back home yet, not when he was so close to achieving his dream.

"But why now, when we're so close to winning the competition?" Imelda just couldn't understand why the boy had changed his mind so quickly. A few seconds ago, he had been just fine, yet now he wanted to leave? It boggled her mind.

On stage, the emcee took the microphone. "Damas y caballeros, I have an announcement to make," she began. "Please be on the lookout for a living boy, answers to the name of Miguel. Earlier tonight, he ran away from his family. They just want to send him back to the Land of the Living…"

Murmurs of concern rumbled through the audience.

"…if anyone has any information, please contact the authorities."

Imelda looked at Miguel, shocked at what she had just heard. "You said De la Cruz was the only family member who could give you the blessing to go home," she said, upset that she had been lied to the entire time. 

"I may have other family members, but—" the boy started, only to be interrupted by her.

"—this whole time, you could have taken my photo back!" she raised her voice as spoke. All this time, she could have crossed the bridge sooner, and could've seen her child. But no, he had to lie to her just so he could see some idol. Now both of their lives were at risk—she was nearing the final death, while he was literally going to die if he didn't get home before sunrise.

"But they  _hate_ music!" he defended himself. "I need a musician's blessing!"

"You lied to me, chiquito!" Imelda yelled. "I trusted every word you said, and you  _lied_ to me!"

"As if you're one to talk!" Miguel retorted.

Imelda gestured to herself. "Take a good look at me! I'm being forgotten, Miguel. I don't know if I'll even survive the night." Her eyes narrowed as she grabbed his arm, beginning to drag him away, to his family. "This nonsense ends now!" 

"It's not nonsense!" Miguel protested, as he tried pulling his arm out of her grasp. "Let go of me!"

"I'm taking you to your family," she told him, her tone sounding stern. "You'll thank me for saving your life later."

"You're not saving my life!" Miguel yelled, wriggling his arm out of her grasp. "You're only looking out for yourself!" He pulled her photo out of his pocket, throwing it at her. "Keep your stupid photo!" 

Imelda tried to grab her photo, but it caught a breeze and drifted into the crowd. “No – no, no, _no!_ ” She began to scramble to catch her photo.

“And don’t come near me ever again!” Miguel spat, before running away.

After Imelda finally caught her photo, she looked up, only to see that the boy had disappeared. “Chiquito, no…” she whispered, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She had only wanted to send him home, and to have her photo put up so she could cross the bridge.

As she got up, she began to sob softly, muttering, “I just wanted to send you home, and to see my little girl…”

Now not only was she alone, but he as well, with no one to look after him. Even if he somehow found a way to get to Ernesto, who knew if the musician would even listen to him? He could easily refuse to give the boy his blessing, thinking that he was merely a lying fan, thus trapping him in the Land of the Dead forever. 

She then wiped away her tears, as she began to feel a little determined. She had made a deal with the boy, and he would keep his bargin—and she would also make  _sure_ that he got home safely. 

She would make things right, no matter what the obstacles would be.

* * *

Miguel hustled to get away from Imelda. Dante bounded after him, but looked back and whimpered, sensing something was wrong. He barked to get the boy’s attention.

“Dante, cállate!” Miguel tried shushing the dog.

But Dante was persistent. He tugged at Miguel’s pants, trying to pull him back to Imelda.

“No, Dante!” Miguel protested, trying to stop the dog from dragging him back to the woman. She couldn’t help him out, not anymore. “Stop it! She won’t help me!”

Dante grabbed onto his hoodie sleeve. Miguel tried to shake the xolo off, but his hoodie slipped off, revealing the arms of a living boy. The dog redoubled his efforts.

“Dante, _stop!_ ” the boy shouted. “You’re not a spirit guide, you’re just a dumb dog! Now, _get out of here!_ ” He yanked his hoodie away from the xolo, who shrank back, rebuffed.

The scuffle had drawn some eyes from the crowd. Startled skeletons saw Miguel’s arms. Noticing the attention he’d drawn, the boy scrambled to get his hoodie back on.

“It’s him!”

“It’s that living boy!”

“I heard about him.”

“Look!”

“He’s alive!”

“The boy’s alive.”

Miguel ran and jumped down some scaffholding. In the distance, he saw De la Cruz’s tower. After only a few paces, Pepita landed in front of the boy, blocking his path. He skid to a stop, letting out a startled cry, “ _AHHH!_ ”

Then, peeking over the jaguar’s head was an even more terrifying sight: Héctor.

“We need to talk, chamaco!” Héctor exclaimed, looking at the boy. He had to get things through to him, one way or the other. “Before I give you my blessing and send you home, there’s something you need to know—”

“—I don’t want your blessing, _nor_ do I want to talk to you!” Miguel interrupted his great-great grandfather. He scrambled upright, bounding for a narrow alley staircase.

“Chamaco! Stop running!” Héctor yelled. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to get through with his spirit guide, he got off of Pepita and pursued the boy on foot.

“Come back, Miguel!” He wriggled through an iron gate. “Stop pursuing this musical fantasy, and come back so I can send you home!” He was stopped by the gate, as he was unable to slip through. “Please, chamaco! Just let me help you!”

“You’re not helping me!” Miguel shouted, as he turned to face his great-great grandfather. “You’re only making things worse!”

“Wait – what do you mean I’m ‘only making things worse’?” Héctor asked, confused at the boy’s words. He was only trying to look out for him—trying to steer him from going down his wife’s path. He didn’t want the boy’s parents—especially his great-grandson, Enrique—to experience the pain he and Coco had felt when his wife left. No one deserved to go through that.

“Music is what makes me happy,” Miguel said, his voice wavering a bit as he struggled to fight back tears. “And you…you want to stop me from playing music! You want to take away the one thing that has kept me happy for so many years, all because you refuse to listen to anyone else’s voice but your own!”

Héctor paused for a moment, soaking in the kid’s words. _He has to know now, before it’s too late_ , he thought to himself. _I’ll never forgive myself, if I fail him now as a grandfather._

As the boy began to head up the stairs, Héctor began to sing softly, _“Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona… no dejaré de quererte…”_

Miguel stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening as his grandfather finished singing. He looked back at the seventy-five year-old, confused. He thought he didn’t like music—yet there he was, having sung one of the most famous songs known throughout the entire country. “I thought you hated music,” he remarked.

Héctor shook his head, a small smile on his face. “No,” he replied. “There was once a time where I _loved_ music. I remember when my wife would play her guitar—we would both sing together and dance, and nothing else mattered…” Then, just as he had begun to reminisce the good memories, the bad ones had flooded in—what had happened a year after his wife left, leaving him and Coco behind. By then, he had started the shoe business; but things hadn’t been easy on them.

_“Papá, will Mamá ever come home?” little Coco had asked him, every single day. There was always this pained look in her eyes—a yearning to see her mother, to have her back home so that their family could be complete and everything would be perfect again._

_And he gave her the same response every time, the burden on his heart only growing more and more as he saw how much his daughter had suffered: “No, mija. I’m afraid not.”_

_Coco would frown, and only mumble in return, “Okay…”_

_He’d then kiss her head, and would tell her, “But it’s okay, I’m still here. And I will always be here for you, okay?”_

_She’d then nod and smile a little. Even then, though, he could still sense that she wanted her mother._

_As for the business, things had been fine sale wise, and in the workshop—but when he would head out into the village to buy food and clothes, he would hear the townspeople whispering about him._

_“Such an odd man, playing both father_ and _mother for his daughter!”_

_“Indeed. Should’ve just remarried to save face.”_

_“He’s hardly what I’d call a man at all! He fits so well into his wife’s own role.”_

_“His wife was rather ‘manly’, for a woman. Makes me wonder about his peculiar ‘taste’ in people…”_

_And of course, the townspeople’s gossip only fueled some of the other men in the village to harass him, in attempts to ‘court’ him—as he was, in their eyes, the ‘ideal woman.’_

_“Hey, Rivera!” they would shout. “Want to come and hang out with us, have some ‘fun’? Such a preciosa figure like yourself shouldn’t spend the rest of his days, known as ‘el pequeño hombre solitario’!”_

_Of course, he wouldn’t have any of it. He ended up hitting a few of the men, while chasing off the others._

_But the real kick in the gut was when the radios would play, and he would hear Ernesto de la Cruz singing ‘Remember Me’, as though it was a love song. But it wasn’t, it never had been—it was a lullaby, written by his wife for their daughter._

_And yet, after she left, it turned into something else. It—along with all of her songs and music itself—became a constant reminder of the suffering he and his daughter had to go through because of his wife’s decision to leave them, just so she could become a mariachi._

_And so, from then on, he had made sure that music would never play in his household ever again. Never again would music tear apart his family._

Héctor snapped out of his thoughts. He frowned as he continued, “But things changed when we had Coco… by then, I realized that my daughter meant more to me than music ever did. I wanted to settle down and start a family, but _she_ wanted to perform for an audience along with her brother.” He sounded sullen, as he spoke about his wife and her brother. He paused again, lost in a memory. Just as he had gained many things, he had to lose something first—the woman he loved. All that she left behind were memories, a broken heart, bitter feelings and a fear—a fear to lose yet another member of his family. “We both made our own choices—our own huge sacrifices—in the end. I chose mi familia, while she chose music.” He looked at Miguel. “Now, you must choose as well.”

“Why must I pick sides?” Miguel asked, upset that he was being forced to make such a tough decision. “Why can’t you just support me, like how family is supposed to?” He wiped the corner of his eyes, frustrated. “I guess no matter what, you’ll never listen to me.”

Héctor’s eyes widened, shocked to see the boy so upset. “Miguel—”

Before he could try to console him, the boy turned away and ascended the narrow staircase towards De la Cruz’s tower.

Héctor let out a loud sigh, turning away from the gates as he headed back down the stairs. He continued walking, until he stopped and sat down at a bench.

He put his head in his hands, shaking it as he muttered to himself, “Where did I go wrong? I’ve failed my chamaco…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m ending it here, since I want to save Ernesto de la Bastardo’s appearance for the next chapter.  
> Imelda and Héctor's reactions to Miguel fleeing are inspired by the novel adaption, where Imelda cries as she sits down on a bench as she only wanted to send Miguel back home.  
> Héctor's little "flashback" of sorts was inspired by a comment of Deadrose on chapter 7. I wanted to give brief glimpse at what Héctor went through (since he lived during a time where people were very prejudiced against those who didn't adhere to gender norms and such), and how he kinda ended up banning music aside from the reason provided at the beginning: abandonment. Not sure if it turned out good, but oh well.  
> Sorry for the angst. I can only say that from then on, the suffering only gets worse. :'(


	10. ix. tío ernesto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where we finally meet De la Cruz, along with a couple of cameos from some Mexican icons—like Dolores del Rio, Jorge Negrete, Pedro Infante, María Félix, El Santo, Agustín Lara, Mario Moreno Cantinflas, Emiliano Zapata—along with a really small appearance from the director who helped start Gael García Bernal’s (Héctor’s voice actor) career and helped shape Mexico’s film history during the period surrounding WWII: Alfredo Ripstein (because A. I think his films are neat and B. Pancho Villa held him when he was a baby; the guy's practically been an icon since he was born!).  
> De la Cruz is like, a villain I despise a lot but… somehow, he was a little fun to write for this AU? Like here his motives will change slightly, but not a lot, though he will definitely be more of a colossal _pinche puta_ here. Not sure if my explanation makes sense, but that’s the only way I can describe it, really.  
>  Miguel’s lyrics are in bold, and bolded italics is for when it’s in unison. We also get a glimpse at the other Riveras, but it’s mostly De la Cruz here.  
> Anyways, enough of me rambling, here's chapter 9.

Miguel finally arrived at the foot of the hill to Ernesto de la Cruz’s tower. His heart felt heavy, from the arguments he had gone through earlier—from his fallout with Imelda and chasing away Dante, to Héctor’s discussion with him. He wished that he didn’t have to sacrifice his friends and the rest of his family to meet his great-great-great uncle, but he didn’t have much of a choice, unfortunately. It was either that, or give up his dream.

Vehicles from all eras—limousines, motor cars, carriages—dropped off finely dressed guests who lined up to get aboard a funicular that scaled the tower to the mansion.

A ninety year-old man with white hair and dressed in a simple tux showed a fancy invitation to a security guard, who then let the man go onto the funicular. Miguel squinted, and soon recognized the man as Alfredo Ripstein—the director who helped shape the film industry during the second world war, was held by _the_ Pancho Villa as a baby, _and_ directed a film starring Ernesto back in 1940 titled “Esperanza de años”.

“I hope you have a good time, Señor Ripstein,” the guard said to the director.

“Gracias,” the director thanked him, before he boarded the funicular.

El Santo and María Félix then walked up to the security guard. The sixty-six year-old silver-masked luchador produced a fancy invitation to the guard, as did the eighty-eight year-old actress.

“Oh! El Santo and Señora Félix!” the guard said giddily. “I’m such a big fan.” He sheepishly held up a camera. “You mind if I—”

“Of course,” María answered, while El Santo nodded.

The security guard removed his head handed it to the luchador for a selfie. Both El Santo and María Félix posed for the picture, as the guard’s body took the photo.

“Gracias, Señor y Señora!” the guard thanked them. He put his head back on, as the two headed past the velvet rope.

Miguel was revealed to have been waiting in line after the two stars, once he stepped forward.

“Invitation?” the guard requested.

“It’s okay,” Miguel said, pulling out his guitar. “I’m Ernesto’s great-great-great nephew!” He then struck De la Cruz’s signature pose with the guitar.

A few seconds later, the boy was tossed out of the line. He shook his head after he landed on his behind.

Just then, he saw Los Chachalacos unloading their instruments from their van. He ran up to them. “Disculpen, señores…”

“Hey, guys,” the band leader said, “it’s Poco Loco!”

“You were on fire tonight!” a band member exclaimed.

“You too!” Miguel replied. Then, he whispered, “Hey, from one musician to another, I need a favor…”

* * *

The band leader handed an invitation to the security guard.

“Ooh, Los Chachalacos!” the security guard awed. “Glad you could make it!”

The band filed onto the funicular, with the sousaphone player angling his instrument away from the guard’s view. After they got onto the funicular, he turned to reveal a pair of legs hanging out of the bell of the sousaphone. With a deep “toot!” Miguel fell out of the bell, onto the floor of the funicular.

“Muchas gracias!” he thanked the band.

The funicular ascended.

* * *

The doors of the funicular opened to reveal De la Cruz’s lavish mansion. Los Chachalacos all filed out.

“Whoa…” Miguel was in awe of the entire thing. It was all so big and grand, just as he’d pictured it.

“Enjoy the party, little músico!” the band leader said, before parting ways.

Miguel waved at the band as they left, before heading towards the mansion.

On the stairs leading up, the party was bustling—performers, servers and guests dressed to the nines.

A fire breather let out flames that transformed into a flurry of butterflies.

“Look, it’s Ernesto!” a guest cried out.

Miguel caught a glimpse of Ernesto heading deeper into the party. He began to pursue his great-great-great uncle. _De la Cruz… he’s here! Tío Ernesto is here!_

He headed into the foyer, but lost his Tío in the crowd. “Señor de la Cruz!” he called out. He elbowed his way through the room. “Pardon me, Señor de la Cruz! Señor de la—”

He stopped as he found himself in a huge hall with hundreds of guests, the heart of the party. Film clips played all around the room from De la Cruz’s movies.

“When you see your moment, you mustn’t let it pass you by. You must seize it.”

Miguel soaked in his Tío’s words, just as he soaked in everything around him.

Synchronized swimmers made formations in a sparkling indoor pool, while a DJ laid a decades-spanning mash-up soundtrack.

A clip of Ernesto riding his noble steed played behind Miguel.

“We’re almost there, Dante.”

 _Dante…_ the boy thought of the stray xolo. He had named him after his idol’s horse, as a way of paying tribute to the famous musician.

He then jumped above to see the crowd. “Señor de la Cruz!” he tried calling out to his great-great-great uncle once more. “Señor de la— oh, _come on!_ ” He frowned as he was unable to get the musician’s attention.

Then, a clip featuring Ernesto as a good-natured priest played from behind the boy.

“But what can we do?” the nun in the clip asked, her voice filled with despair. “It is hopeless…”

“You must have faith, sister,” ‘Padre’ Ernesto replied.

“Oh, but Padre, he will never listen.”

“He will listen… to _music!_ ”

The passionate words emboldened Miguel. He began to climb a pillar to the landing of a grand staircase, then standing above the crowd.

He took a breath and let out the loudest grito he ever could. It echoed through the space, and the party guests turned. The DJ faded the music.

Having garnered some attention, Miguel began to play his guitar. More guests turned.

As a hush fell on the crowd, the sound of Miguel’s guitar became singular.

**Señoras y señores, buenas tardes, buenas noches**

**Buenas tardes, buenas noches, señoritas y señores**

**Está noche estar aquí es mi pasión, que alegría**

**Pues la música es mi lengua y el mundo es mi familia**

The boy continued to play and sing as he nervously walked forward; the crowd parting as he moved closer and closer to De la Cruz, who turned as he saw the boy moving closer to him.

Strange, the musician thought, how the boy seemed a little familiar—as though he’d met someone similar to him before. Yet, he couldn’t quite figure out who it was that he reminded him of.

Whatever the case, the boy’s singing was outstanding, regardless.

  **Pues la música es mi lengua y el mundo es mi familia**

He passed a movie screen where a clip featured Ernesto singing the same song in one of his films, the songs overlapping for a brief moment.

_**Pues la música es mi lengua y el mundo es mi familia** _

Miguel’s soul poured into the strings and his voice as he approached his hero, his _uncle_ —

  **Pues la música es mi lengua—**

Miguel was unable to finish the song, as he tumbled into the indoor pool.

The party-goers gasped.

Ernesto quickly rolled up his sleeves, threw his hat to someone standing by and—in true movie hero fashion—jumped into the pool. Under the water, he swam over to the boy, who was sinking. He didn’t notice the shoe polish washing away, as he focused on taking the guitar off the boy’s back, removing the extra weight. He then lifted the coughing child up to the edge.

“Are you alright, niño?” the musician asked the boy.

Miguel looked up at his hero, mortified. The shoe polish had washed away, revealing him to be alive.

Ernesto’s eyes went wide as the crowd began to gasp and murmur. It was the living boy—the child that everyone had been talking about non-stop. And he was here, in his mansion, having tried to sing to him. “It’s you… you’re the boy from the Land of the Living!” _But why is he here?_ he wondered.

“How do you even know about me?” the twelve year-old asked, surprised that his great-great-great uncle was aware of his presence in the Land of the Dead.

“You’re the one everyone’s been talking about ever since the news broke out!” the musician replied, chuckling. Then, he asked the child, “But what made you decide to come here, of all the places?”

The boy got up a bit, sitting on his knees as he answered, “I’m Miguel. Your sister’s great-great grandson, and your great-great-great nephew.”

Ernesto was shocked. “I… have a great-great-great _nephew?_ ” He paused for a moment, lost in his thoughts. He had grown up in an orphanage, barely remembering his mother while the only thing he had from his father was his surname—other than that, he barely knew his own father. _Unless, his great-great grandmother is…_ He shook his head. No, it couldn’t be. Sure, there were some resemblances, but there was no way that Imelda could have great-great grandchildren. She died from poisoning, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that a man that looked and had a personality like Héctor could even have grandchildren. It was just a mere coincidence that the child resembled the woman that he had once called “hermanita”, nothing more.

But then, that would mean that his father had remarried and had a daughter, after leaving his mother. Then again, he had to have gotten his taste in relationships from _somebody_ —might as well have come from his father, who’d inherited his womanizing side from his own.

 _Yes_ , he thought to himself, satisfied with his conclusion, free of the guilt that would come with killing the child's great-great grandmother had she been Imelda instead. _That’s it. I have a half-sister, and he’s her great-great grandson. It makes perfect sense._

“I need your blessing,” Miguel continued, “so I can go back home and become a musician—a _mariachi_ —just like you.” He pointed at his Tío, before he frowned a little. “The rest of our family refuses to listen to a word I say. But… I was hoping you would?”

Ernesto stared at the boy, still deep in thought. The kid definitely had talent, and taking the child in for a while _would_ only enhance the positive image the public had of him—besides, there wasn’t any harm in keeping such a precioso niño entertained for a short bit of time while exploiting his own opportunities a bit, was there? 

He smiled as he stood up. “My boy, with a talent such as yours, how could anyone not listen?”

Miguel got up and ran over to the musician, hugging his waist. The crowd awwed at the scene.

Ernesto chuckled, sweeping the boy up onto his shoulders, showing him off to the room. “ _I have a great-great-great nephew!_ ” he exclaimed.

The crowd roared with applause, while Miguel nuzzled his chin against the top of Ernesto’s head. 

The musician smiled and held onto the boy’s legs. This Día de los Muertos was going to be even more fun, as long as everything went accordingly.

* * *

At the bottom of the tower, a member of the crowd gasped. “Look, it’s Frida!”

The silhouette of Señora Kahlo stepped up to the security guard. He let her in immediately, as it would be outrageous to even dare to ask a person such as her for an invitation.

“It is an honor, Señora!” the guard said, bowing his head a bit.

Little did he know, it was not Frida he was talking to, but rather Imelda in disguise yet again. “Gracias,” she thanked him, silently thankful that the men Ernesto had hired to be security guards were very incompetent.

She stepped onto the funicular, quickly readjusting her unibrow so that she would not be discovered soon. _I’m coming, chiquito_ , she thought. _I’ve kept up most of my end of the bargain, now it’s time you do the same._

* * *

“Hey, Negrete! Infante!” Ernesto called out to two men, one was forty-two while the other was thirty-nine. The musician had his arm wrapped around the boy as he introduced him to the men, faking the giddiness in his voice, “Have you met my great-great-great nephew yet? His name is Miguel.”

The men shook their heads.

“We haven’t met him,” Jorge said. “But we’ve definitely heard of him.”

Pedro knelt down to the boy’s level. “Hola, Miguel,” he greeted the living boy.

Miguel stared at the two, surprised that he was actually meeting both Pedro Infante _and_ Jorge Negrete. He looked up at Ernesto and asked, “You _know_ them?”

“Know them?” Ernesto laughed. This kid was too precious. “We’re practically amigos!”

“Woah…” Miguel looked at the two actors in awe.

Ernesto then began to lead the boy away. “Come, mi pequeño sobrino, there’s some more friends of mine that would _love_ to meet you.”

“Okay,” the twelve year-old said excitedly. As he and his uncle left, he waved back at Pedro and Jorge. “Adiós, Señor Infante! Señor Negrete!”

“Adiós!” the two chorused, waving back at the boy.

* * *

“What do you mean ‘you’ve failed our chamaco’?” Victoria asked.

The family had met up again, after Julio had spotted Héctor sitting on a bench with his face in his hands.

“I wasn’t able to send him back home,” Héctor explained. “I told him _everything_ , and yet he still ran away…” he sighed. “I’ve failed him as a grandfather.”

Victoria gave her grandfather a sympathetic look. “Don’t say that, Abuelito,” she spoke softly. “You were just trying your best to keep him from repeating the same mistakes as that…that woman. But you are not a failure—you are a wonderful grandfather, and you have done _so much_ for this family.” She placed her hand on his shoulder, giving him a small smile.

Héctor smiled a bit. She had always been a smart girl who knew exactly what to say at the right time, which was one of the many reasons why she was his favorite granddaughter. Sometimes, he wondered what he did to deserve a grandchild like her.

However, their moment was cut short as Óscar spoke up, “Um, hermano, I think I know where Miguel ran off to.”

Héctor turned to his brother. “What do you mean?”

Óscar then pointed at a shop nearby, which a bunch of little televisions at display.

Héctor looked at the televisions, and his eyes widened as he saw a familiar face riding up on horseback along with Ernesto. “No… _no_ , chamaco…” he trailed off, his metaphorical heart sinking as he realized he was too late.

His great-great grandson had went down the same path his wife did—except this time, Ernesto was flaunting him off as if he were a trophy or one of his pet chihuahuas. Typical, he was always conceited—Héctor had seen it since day one, when he’d first been introduced to the musician. And yet… he still ached, as music had torn apart his family once again.

“Hermano?” Felipe spoke up. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll never be free from the past,” Héctor remarked, still staring at the image of his great-great grandson in the television. First, he had lost his wife, and now he had lost his grandson, too. 

It seemed as though death was just as cruel to him as life was.

* * *

“Now, Miguel, say hello to all of my friends,” Ernesto said as he led the boy into a room.

Miguel gasped as he saw Agustín Lara sitting at the piano, while Dolores del Rio, Emiliano Zapata and Mario Moreno Cantinflas were chatting it up in the corner.

“Agustín, Dolores, Emiliano, Mario: meet my great-great-great nephew, Miguel,” Ernesto spoke.

“Ah, so this is the living boy everyone’s been talking about,” Agustín remarked, as he glanced at the child.

“Nephew, huh?” Mario looked at the boy, grinning a bit. He held his hand out for the boy to shake. “Encantada de conocerte, niño.”

“El placer es mío, Señor Cantinflas!” Miguel said, a little giddy as he shook Mario’s hand.

Emiliano stared at the boy for a moment, before he looked at Ernesto and said, “He definitely does have some of your looks.”

“Of course – he’s a De la Cruz, after all,” Ernesto bragged. And thank Jesús the kid was, for what would he do if the living boy had turned out to be someone else’s great-great grandson, instead of his half-sister’s? Not only would he be unable to flaunt the kid around and act all generous, but that would only bring more problems to the table—and he was already avoiding enough as it was, with keeping up his act and making sure that _no_ _one_ figured out the circumstances that lead to his rise to fame.

“I must say, I never would’ve expected that you of all people would have a long-lost sister of sorts,” Dolores remarked, as she took a few steps towards the musician. “This certainly is a lot to take in.”

Miguel looked between Ernesto and Dolores, a little confused. _Long lost sister? But the letter…_ Señora del Río’s comment didn’t make any sense—Tío Ernesto _knew_ his sister. After all, why else would he invite her to come with him so that they could pursue a musical career if he didn’t?

Ernesto chuckled nervously, unsure of how to respond to Dolores’ comment. He knew nothing of his half-sister—and really, the only one that came into mind when he thought of the word ‘hermana’ was Imelda, but that was a complicated case. Sure, long ago, they had once been a duo—a pair of adoptive siblings, against the world. She even taught him some of her skills when it came to music, and everything seemed fine.

Until Héctor showed up, and all of a sudden, Imelda began to focus more on _him_ instead. Everyday, she would speak of how kind he was, how gentle he was, how wonderful he was, how he had a great voice—how he made her heart burn with a fiery passion. Ernesto could never understand why she had fallen for Héctor—aside from the nose and golden tooth, he didn’t see how the man was ‘so charming.’ And yet, Imelda did. She and Héctor eventually married, and they had a little girl named Coco—who thankfully didn’t inherit Héctor’s looks.

But then, things began to change even more. Imelda started spending more time with her husband and daughter than she did with her own friend—her _hermano._ So, he took matters into his own hands and wrote a letter to her, inviting her to a tour of the country so they could play music together—just as they once had, before that man and the little brat came along. She accepted, and they soon left Santa Cecilia and started performing across the country.

However, things didn’t go _exactly_ according to plan. The audience began to pay more attention to Imelda, applauding _her_ instead of him. He began feeling a little jealous. What made her so much better than him?

Eventually, one night, she spoke of how homesick she was and tried to leave—and that was when he snapped. There was no way she would ruin his chances, and so he decided that he would go into the music business all by himself. And while the results were him gaining fame, it took a lot to convince her that her passing was merely from food poisoning and nothing more—but there was nothing that a little emotional manipulation couldn’t do. Besides, she was the one who ended up destroying the sibling bond they had when she tried to leave. He merely cut the ties.

Ernesto snapped out of his thoughts, and then lied, “Well, there’s some things that I like to keep… private. That includes my family life, especially my sister.” _And my old friend, but it’s for the best that you remained unaware of her existence_ , he added silently.

Dolores looked a little skeptical, but simply responded with, “I see.” 

Ernesto then cleared his throat. “Agustín, would you do us the honor and play ‘Recuérdame’ for us?” 

The composer nodded, and turned back to the piano. He began to play a few notes, while the others all linked arms and sang along,  _ “Recuérdame, hoy me tengo que ir mi amor, recuérdame…” _

As he sung along, Miguel wondered why Ernesto seemed so nervous when talking about his own sister, and why he didn’t correct Dolores on her error. Then, he began to wonder, where  _ was  _ his great-great grandmother, anyway? 

He quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of his head.  _ I’ll ask Tío Ernesto later, when we’re back at the mansion. Maybe he’ll have an explanation. _

Besides, it wasn’t like his great-great-great uncle would lie to him or anything… right? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this by far is the longest chapter I’ve ever written, so I’ll end it here now since I’m saving all of the big stuff for the next one.  
> Took two days to complete this, but it was so worth it… still don’t know what my favorite parts are, all I know is that I’m very satisfied with this one – and I hope this was just as enjoyable for y’all as it was for me. :D


	11. x. a tangled web of foul play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter hurt a LOT to write, even more than the fallouts a few chapters ago… at the same time though, twisting this scene to fit the story was kinda fun, in a weird way. Still, I didn’t emotionally prepare myself enough for this one.  
> The title of this chapter and a bit of dialogue from Imelda near the end was inspired by a comment from Deadrose. ;)  
> Also, be warned, vulgar language escalates near the end of this chapter.

Ernesto gestured to the massive piles of gifts from his fans—bread, fruits, flowers, instruments and more goods, which were piled up to the ceiling. He hadn’t known what to do with them besides keep them all to himself, so he had stacked them up real high. “All of these offerings came from my wonderful fans back in the Land of the Living,” he explained. “They leave me with so many gifts, that I just don’t know what to do with them!”

“Wow…” Miguel took in all of his surroundings, though it was almost too much to absorb. Though, he wondered to himself, _Does Tío Ernesto have any regrets? And where is my great-great grandmother? I thought she’d be here…_

Ernesto noticed that the boy’s mind seemed to be focusing on something else. _A few seconds ago, he was happy, now he’s moping. What the hell is wrong with you, niño?_ He didn’t voice his thoughts, though. Instead, he feigned some concern and asked, “Is there something wrong? Is it all too much for you? You look a little overwhelmed…”

“No,” Miguel lied. “It’s all so amazing.” _Why isn’t my great-great grandmother here?_ he wanted to ask, but he feared that he would sound a little ungrateful. _She’s his sister, she should be around._

“Really?” Ernesto wasn’t convinced, so he tried a more persuasive tone, “Are you _sure_ everything is fine?”

The twelve year-old sighed, knowing all too well that the musician would keep pressing until he got an answer. “It’s just—I have looked up to you my entire life, but… do you ever regret leaving your hometown with your sister, and choosing music over everything else? And…” he trailed off for a moment, before he continued the second question, “Where _is_ my great-great grandmother, anyway? Since she’s your sister, she must be somewhere around here, right?”

Ernesto paused for a moment. The kid just _had_ to ask such difficult questions, didn’t he? The musician carefully thought over what words to say, before he knelt down and looked into the boy’s eyes. “It was hard, saying goodbye to my hometown and leaving everything behind,” he lied. “But I couldn’t have done it differently.”

“And your sister, my great-great grandmother?” Miguel questioned.

“Oh, mi hermana, she…” Ernesto trailed off for a moment, unsure of how to respond. _Maldita sea – this kid won’t stop, will he? No, he just has to know where his grandmother is! Am I, Ernesto de la Cruz, not good enough for his attention anymore? Have I not showered him with attention? Must I invite him to perform at the Sunrise Spectacular for him to stop asking about my damned half-sister?_ Then, he snapped out of his thoughts as soon as he heard the sound of fireworks going off. He ran over to the window, suddenly excited as he gestured to the sparkling city beyond his hilltop estate, fireworks going off on the veranda. “Look – the fireworks have begun!”

The boy watched as the musician started getting all giddy over the fireworks. He still felt a little confused, and had a weird feeling in his gut now that perhaps things weren’t all as they appeared. Maybe he should've paid heed to Imelda’s words.

One thing was certain: his great-great-great uncle wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured him to be. He wasn’t as honest as he’d thought he would be. He was acting so strange… but why? Why was he acting like this?

Miguel just didn’t understand it at all.

* * *

As the party guests went outside to watch the light show, the lights in the empty halls were turned down. Bursts of color from outside flashed across the walls. The only lights coming from inside the hall were De la Cruz’s film clips, continuing to play on the walls.

Ernesto and Miguel descended the staircase into the empty hall.

“Soon, the party will move across town for my ‘Sunrise Spectacular’,” Ernesto boasted. Then, he pointed at the boy. “And _you_ , my boy, shall be my guest of honor!”

Miguel was unsure. If the musician hadn’t been acting so suspicious, maybe he would’ve been excited. But his gut told him _no, you need to get back home._ He lifted up his shirt, revealing the skeletal transition up to his torso. “I’m sorry, Tío Ernesto, but I can’t go to the Sunrise Spectacular,” he apologized. “I need to get back home, or else…” he trailed off, shivering a little as a cold breeze blew by.

Ernesto was a little disappointed to hear this, as he wanted to exploit his opportunities a little more before sending his great-great-great nephew home. “Oh, I suppose I should send you home now.” He went over to a vase full of marigolds, plucking out a petal. He then went back to the boy. “It has been an honor to meet you, mi sobrino. I’m sad that you couldn’t stay any longer, but I hope you die very soon.”

Miguel’s eyes widened as he heard the last words leave his great-great-great uncle’s mouth. “What did you just say?”

“You know what I meant,” Ernesto lied. _You just had to blurt that out, didn’t you?_ he silently scolded himself. “Anyway, I give you my—”

“—you were supposed to keep up your end of the deal, chiquito!” another voice interrupted.

The two turned, both startled as Imelda stepped into the light.

“Frida?” Ernesto was a bit confused to see the painter, as he thought she wasn’t coming anytime soon. “I thought you couldn’t make it.”

 _Right, I forgot how much of an idiota you were_ , Imelda thought, rolling her eyes as she took off the wig and threw her outfit off, revealing her actual hair and her ragged dress. She took a few steps forward, towards Miguel as she took out her photo. “You said you’d put my photo up. You _promised_.”

“I know,” the twelve year-old said, looking down at the ground, a little ashamed. There was this feeling that nagged at him, telling him how he shouldn’t have ignored her as he had back then—how he shouldn’t have ran away from her, without at least keeping his promise.

“You know this woman?” Ernesto questioned, looking at the boy.

“I met her earlier tonight,” Miguel explained. “She told me she knew you—”

As Imelda stepped forward with the photo, Ernesto soon recognized her.

“Im— _Imelda?_ ”

“I promise that I hold no grudges against you, just _please_ put my photo up on your ofrenda,” Imelda pleaded with the boy. She pushed the photo into his hands.

Ernesto intercepted the photo. He studied the picture for a bit, before looking back at the faded skeleton that stood before him. “Mi amiga…” he faked a sympathetic tone. Really, he didn’t care _much_ at this point. It was her own fault for ruining their sibling bond along with their friendship. “…you’re being forgotten.”

“And it’s all _your_ fault!” Imelda spat, her voice dripping with venom. “ _I_ was the one who wrote those songs, which you _stole_ from me, along with _my_ guitar!”

“Wh— _what?_ ” Miguel stammered, his stomach churning as the woman accused his hero of theft. A part of him didn’t want to believe it, but at the same time, it explained why Imelda spoke so negatively about the musician.

“The reason I’m being forgotten is because you never gave me any credit for writing those songs!” the twenty-four year-old woman continued to tear into the forty-eight year-old man. For so long, she had stood by and let him lie to the world, and try to write her out of existence—no longer would she let him get away with his deceit.

“What is she talking about?” Miguel questioned Ernesto.

“Tell him,” Imelda demanded the musician, her voice now low. “ _Tell_ _him_ , or I’ll do it myself.”

“I never meant to take all of the credit,” Ernesto said, feigning innocence. “We were best friends—a duo—but you _died_ … I only sang your songs because I wanted to keep a part of you alive.”

Imelda didn’t fall for his act, though. “That’s a damn lie and you know it!”

“You two really were a duo,” Miguel murmured, realizing that what the woman had told him had been true. He wondered, how many times did she _actually_ lie to him aside from the directions to where De la Cruz was?

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Imelda began, taking on a mature tone of voice. “You can fix your mistakes. Miguel can put up my photo, and I can cross the bridge to see my daughter.”

Ernesto looked back at the photo, contemplating over it. _She was my little sister, but… times change, don’t they?_

“Remember the night I left, Ernesto?” she questioned him. “We drank together, and you told me that even if the sky came crashing down, there was nothing that you wouldn’t do for _tú pequeña hermana._ I’m asking you to do this for me now.”

“Wait, what do you mean by 'tú pequeña hermana'?” Miguel asked her, now even more confused than before. “I thought the only person he went on tour with before he became famous was his sister—my great-great grandmother, who he also called his _hermanita_.”

Now Imelda was confused as well. “ _What?_ But I thought your great-great grandmother…” she trailed off for a moment. Could it be that…?

Miguel quickly pulled the letter out of his right pocket. “See? It’s written at the bottom, right here.”

Imelda took the letter into her hands, reading it over, immediately recognizing it as her own handwriting. “This – this is my letter,” she stammered, her eyes widening as she looked back at the boy.

Miguel’s eyes widened as well, as the realization sunk in. No wonder why he had sensed some familiarity when he first looked at her photo—all this time, _she_ had been his great-great grandmother. “So this means… _you’re_ my great-great grandmother—you’re Mamá Coco’s madre!”

Ernesto looked between the two, shocked at their discovery. His initial fear when he had first met the boy, and his suspicions—they had been confirmed true. He was Imelda’s great-great grandson.

“I can’t believe it,” Imelda gasped, feeling overwhelmed all of a sudden. How could she have been so blind, and not noticed the signs sooner? “All this time… I have a great-great grandson, and it’s _you_ , mi chiquito! You’re mi hija's great-grandson!”

Miguel smiled at her for a moment, so happy to have _finally_ met his great-great grandmother at long last, but then he remembered what she had said to De la Cruz. “…wait,” he began, still a little perplexed, “he said that even if the sky came falling down, there was nothing that he wouldn’t do for you?” He then remembered how Ernesto starred in a movie, back in the mid 1930s. “Like in that one movie?”

“What movie?” Imelda asked, baffled by her great-great grandson’s question. They had just found out that they were related, and now he was asking her about some random film?

“That’s a quote from Don Hidalgo,” Miguel explained. “He says that during his toast, in the De la Cruz movie ‘El Camino a Casa’, from 1934.”

Imelda shook her head, a little frustrated. “This is not the cinema, Miguel! This is real life!”

“No, it was referenced in the film somewhere,” Miguel tried to persuade her to listen to him. He looked around the walls, before pointing to the exact clip where he’d first heard the quote. “Mira!”

Imelda looked ahead, watching the scene play out.

“Never were truer words spoken,” Don Hidalgo spoke, with a light chuckle. “This calls for a _toast!_ ” He held out a shot glass, filled with tequila. “To our friendship! Even if the sky came falling down, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you, mi amigo.”

“But in the film, Don Hidalgo poisons the drink,” Miguel continued, his heart beating rapidly as a thought hit him. If Imelda was his great-great grandmother, and she had been planning on returning home to Papá Héctor and Mamá Coco, but never made it back… then, the poisoning—had it really been something she ate? If so, then why would Ernesto put a quote he’d once said to her in one of his films?

“Salud!” Don said, as he clinked his glass against Ernesto’s.

Soon, after the two drank, De la Cruz spit out his drink. “Poison!”

Imelda’s gears began turning. “That night I left…” she looked at the ground as she began to trail off, reliving the memory.

_The twenty-four year-old woman—dressed in a red mariachi dress suit, with a rose in her hair—threw a songbook into her suitcase, shutting it. She grabbed her guitar case, ready to leave. She then headed towards the door._

“We had been performing across the country for months,” Imelda explained, as she recalled everything. “I eventually got homesick, and so I packed up everything, preparing to head home…”

_A thirty year-old Ernesto threw his hands up, upset by her decision. “You want to give up on our dream now? When we’re so close to finally reaching it?”_

_She stopped and turned to him. “I’ve come to realize that this was not my dream,” she said. “The only dream I have now is to go back home, and be with my husband and daughter. I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me.”_

_“How am I supposed to do this without your songs? I_ need _them for my performance!” He reached for her suitcase, grabbing it._

_She immediately pulled back. “I’m not going to spend another day away from my family any longer, Ernesto! I don’t care if you hate me for this, but I’ve already made my choice, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.”_

_He looked at her, furious. His face darkened for a moment, before he composed himself. “Now, why would I hate mi hermanita? If you’re going to leave, then at least let me send you off with a toast.”_

_He then poured a couple of drinks, and gave one to her._

_“To our friendship,” he began, holding up his glass. “Incluso si el cielo se cayera, no hay nada que no haría por ti, mi hermana. Salud!”_

_They both drank from their glasses—however, Ernesto was smirking the whole time._

“Ernesto walked with me to the train station,” Imelda continued.

_It was dark at night. They were walking down the empty street, Imelda with her suitcase and guitar case in tow._

_She then stumbled and fell to her knees, clutching her stomach. Ernesto steadied her, before taking her guitar case._

“There was this pain in my stomach.” Imelda turned to Ernesto. “You kept telling me that it was something I ate—even when I approached you after you died, you told me to stop ‘being so delusional.’ You said, ‘asking such a question only does more damage than good, and you wouldn’t want any more bad things to happen, now would you? It was just a case of bad luck, nothing more.’”

_“Perhaps, it was one of those tarts we had,” he had suggested._

“…but now that I think about it, it wasn’t the food after all. It was something I drank.”

_She took a few more steps, before she collapsed in the street._

“The world went black as soon as my eyes shut—and when I opened them again, I was dead,” Imelda finished.

Miguel was horrified. All this time, the real reason his great-great grandmother never returned home was because she had been poisoned—and not just by anyone, but her _own brother_ , Ernesto de la Cruz. The man he had once looked up to turned out to be a lying, thieving murderer.

“You – you _POISONED_ me!” Imelda yelled, as she pointed a finger at Ernesto. “This whole time, you had manipulated me into thinking that it was just the food, that I just had bad luck—but no, _you_ were responsible for my death all along!”

“I had no other choice,” Ernesto said, his voice now low. “It was the only option I had.”

“But _why?!_ ” Tears formed at the corners of Imelda’s eyes. A long time ago, he had been a fifteen year-old boy whom she had once called ‘hermano’, and now… now, he had just admitted to killing her. “We were once siblings—I was your _hermana!_ Why did you have to poison me? Was it just so you could take my songbook without any problem?”

“I killed you because _everyone_ was focusing more on _your_ performance than _mine!_ ” Ernesto yelled, raising his voice. “Everyone would applaud at your singing and your guitar skills, while I was left in the shadows. It became more clear after each performance that the crowd only seemed to be focusing on _you_. And I started wondering, was it so wrong of me to think that they could enjoy my music, too? I put in just as much effort!” He took a deep breath in, before he then said in a calm tone, “But what really pushed me to poisoning your glass of tequila was that you were going to give up all of our hard work for that twig and brat you call a husband and daughter. You decided to be a little _whore_ and throw away the ties we had as siblings for those two—you were going to ruin everything, just so you could be with your _precious familia._ So, I killed you, and took your songs and your guitar.”

Silence filled the atmosphere for a few minutes, as Miguel and Imelda stared at De la Cruz in shock and horror at his speech.

Tears trickled down Imelda’s cheekbones. She gritted her teeth, before she lunged at Ernesto, tackling him to the ground. There was no way she was going to just stand around and let him continue to so much as even _breathe._ Especially not when he was in close range of her great-great grandson. She couldn't afford to lose another member of her family, she just couldn't. “ _HOW COULD YOU?!_ ”

“Mamá Imelda!” Miguel cried out, worried for his great-great grandmother. He didn’t want her to suffer anymore, because of that cruel man. At the same time, though, he was scared to step in. What would happen to him if he did? So, he stood by and watched the scuffle.

“We grew up together in the orphanage!” she shouted as she began to hit De la Cruz repeatedly. Her voice was now hoarse, as she struggled not to break down into a sobbing mess. “I called you brother, you called me your little sister—and when you turned eighteen, you practically became my guardian! _I TRUSTED YOU AND YOU BETRAYED ME!_ ”

“Security!” Ernesto called out.

“ _YOU’RE THE REASON MI FAMILIA RESENTS ME! YOU RUINED MY LIFE!_ ” Imelda was about to wring his neck, until the security guards came and pulled her off of her so-called ‘brother.’ She struggled, but their hold on her was too tight. “ _BASTARDO LADRÓN BUENO PARA NADA!_ ”

“Throw this _perra psicótica, tonta_ into the pit,” Ernesto ordered the security guards. “She’s completely lost it.”

The guards dragged Imelda through a wide doorway.

“I just wanted to go home and see mi familia again!” Imelda sobbed, as she was dragged away. As one of the guards was about to slam the door shut, she yelled out, “No, no, _NO! CHIQUITO!_ ”

The door slammed shut afterwards, leaving the boy alone with his grandmother’s murderer.

“Mamá Imelda…” Miguel whispered, his heart sinking as he realized that she had been right all along about Ernesto—that the ‘mariachi’ wasn’t as good as he thought he was. He felt so _foolish_ for blindly idolizing the man, so selfish and ungrateful that he didn’t just let listen to Imelda sooner and let her take him back to his family or let Dante drag him back to her—he felt terrible, to have sacrificed his relationship with his own family for a man who poisoned his adoptive sister; the man who was responsible for all the suffering his great-great grandparents and great-grandmother went through.

“I apologize for that little mishap back there,” Ernesto cleared his throat. “Now, I believe I was going to give you my blessing, yes?”

“Sí,” the twelve year-old mumbled, feeling numb as he watched De la Cruz pull up the marigold petal.

Ernesto hesitated for a moment, as he observed the boy. “As you should know by now, my reputation is very important to me,” he began, forcing a smile, “I would hate to have you thinking that I—”

“—you’d hate what? To have me think that you murdered my great-great grandmother, _your adoptive sister_ , out of jealousy?” Miguel interrupted, his eyes narrowing as his voice got louder. “That you’re the reason she’s being forgotten in the first place? That you’re a thief and a liar? That you tore my family apart?”

“You don’t believe _her_ over your own Tío Ernie, now,” Ernesto chuckled a bit, before his smile faded. “…do you?”

“I don’t see any reason as to why I should believe the _bad guy_ ,” Miguel retorted.

Ernesto's facial expression darkened. He placed the photo of Imelda in his coat pocket, as the gears in his head started turning.  _Oh well, the exploitation was fun while it lasted._

"You're just as much of a useless  _cunt_ as your great-great grandmother was," he sneered at the boy. He crumpled the marigold petal, then called out, "Security!"

The guards appeared in the door way.

"Take care of this little  _rat_ ," he ordered. "He'll be extending his stay here."

The guards grabbed the boy by his shoulders. The child went pale. 

"You won't get away with this!" the boy yelled, as the guards began to drag him away. "A true musician doesn't murder in order to succeed!"

Ernesto laughed mockingly. "That is where you are wrong. You see, in order to achieve success, you must be willing to do whatever it takes to…seize your moment."

"No,  _NO!_ " the boy yelled as he was dragged away, out of the back of the mansion.

The guards dragged him towards a cenote, an inescapable sinkhole behind the estate.

"Let go of me!" Miguel struggled to break free from the guards' hold. This couldn't be happening. It was all like some sort of nightmare.

The guards paid no mind to him—instead, they threw him into the sinkhole.

" _AHHHHH!_ " he yelled, as he fell four stories, before splashing into the pool at the bottom of the hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks: _no,_ I didn’t intend for Miguel and Imelda to find out their relation that way. It just happened because it dawned on me that I couldn’t find a way around that. At all. What ended up happening during writing that though was that I was crying a LOT due to my shock on that realization. I still kinda am, even now. Like, that wasn’t what I planned when I started this fic...  
>  But I will say that I wrote one thing on purpose: "El Camino a Casa" being released ten years after Imelda’s death. Because I felt like irony was my strongest part when it came to small additions in this chapter. I also didn't describe whether the petal glowed or not, because not only did I want to leave that ambiguous, but seeing as how Ernesto had pretty much killed his adoptive sister, I don’t think he would necessarily qualify as an uncle anymore. Would you?  
> And yeah, I’ll definitely try to add some fluff to go along with my angst, cause this just got darker than before. Like seriously, I’m thinking of changing the rating now.


	12. xi. family is everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was a fun little way of coping with all of the angst in the previous chapter. 
> 
> Also, Imelda is a wonderful grandmother/mother and no one can convince me otherwise.
> 
> Her lyrics = italics  
> Unison = bolded italics

Miguel let out a gasp as he broke the surface. He swam over to a stone island in the center of the cenote.

“Help!” he called out, coughing up some water in the process. “Can anyone hear me? I have to get home!”

He collapsed on the stone island. His soaked hoodie sagged off his shoulders, revealing that the skeletal transition was almost complete.

There was a moment of silence, before he heard a soft voice speak up, “Miguel?”

He turned just as Imelda emerged from the darkness, staggering towards him.

“Mamá Imelda?” Miguel’s eyes widened as he saw his great-great grandmother.

“Miguel,” she said softly, happy and relieved to see her great-great-grandson. “Oh, mijo!”

“Mamá Imelda!” the boy cried out.

They ran over to each other. Imelda embraced Miguel. The boy returned the hug, yet he still felt ashamed.

“You were right, Mamá Imelda,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes. “You were right about _everything._ I should’ve listened to you, should’ve kept my promise and let you take me back—”

“—shhh,” Imelda hushed him as she patted his back gently, trying to calm him down. She felt him shaking in her arms. “It’s not your fault.”

“They told me not to be like him, but I didn’t listen,” Miguel said, as he looked up at her, making eye contact. “I told them I didn’t care if they didn’t remember me, or if I wasn’t on their ofrenda. And – and when you gave me your photo, I felt a sense of familiarity… if I had paid more attention, and recognized sooner, then maybe—”

“—it’s okay, mijo,” Imelda consoled him. “It’s okay.”

“But if I hadn’t acted so selfish, then we wouldn’t be in this mess,” the boy murmured, still feeling guilty.

Suddenly, a golden flicker fluttered through the woman’s bones, and her grip on her grandson loosened as she fell to the ground, groaning in pain.

“Mamá Imelda, no!” Miguel quickly knelt down by his grandmother. He remembered what happened with Chicharron—how after the golden lights flickered for him, he was forgotten, and the Final Death claimed him.

“Coco…” Imelda whispered, as she pushed her hands against the ground, slowly getting up so that she could sit on her knees. “She’s forgetting me.”

“She was the reason you wanted to cross the bridge,” Miguel remarked. All this time, he had never really asked her why she needed to cross the bridge so badly—now, he knew why: because she wanted to be with her daughter again.

“I should’ve never left mi familia behind like that,” Imelda said, full of regret. “I wish I could apologize to her for my thoughtless actions. I wish that I could tell her how her mamá was only trying to come back home, and how much I loved her. _Mi Coco_ …”

Miguel reached into his left pocket and pulled out the photo, showing it to the woman.

Imelda was surprised to see the photograph. “Is – is that…?” She took the photo, and stared at it for a moment, silently grateful that the boy had brought it with him—but at the same time, she became saddened as she touched the picture of her five year-old daughter. “I always hoped that I would be able to see her again—that she still missed me, and maybe put my photo up on the ofrenda. It never happened though.” She looked at Miguel. “But even if I didn’t get to see her in the living world, I still wished that I would be able to see her here one day and give her a tight hug... but she’s the only living person who remembers me. The moment she dies—”

“—you’ll disappear,” Miguel finished. “And you’ll never get to see her again…”

Imelda was quiet for a moment. Then, she asked, “You know how I didn’t want you to sing ‘Remember Me’, back at the contest?” As he nodded, she continued, “It was because I wrote that song as a lullaby for Coco, when she was little.” A sad smile appeared on her face. “We sang it every night in unison—it was my way of telling her that no matter the distance, I still cared about her. I’d give _anything_ in the world to sing it to her again…”

Then, she began to sing softly, as she remembered her little girl—her adorable little smile, and how she had giggled and sang along to the lullaby before hugging her tightly.

_Recuérdame,_

_Hoy me tengo que ir mi amor_

_Recuérdame,_

_No llores por favor_

_Te llevo en mi corazón y cerca me tendrás,_

_A solas yo te cantaré soñando en regresar_

Miguel watched as his great-great grandmother sang, soaking it all in. This version of the song sounded much more sweeter and tender to him, than De la Cruz’s little ballad ever did.

_Recuérdame,_

_Aunque tenga que emigrar_

_Recuérdame,_

_Si mi guitarra oyes llorar_

Miguel soon joined in, singing along with Imelda. His eyes watered a bit as he saw how much his great-great grandmother loved her daughter, and how much she cared for her family.

_**Ella con su triste canto te acompañara,** _

_**Hasta que en mis brazos tú estés...** _

Imelda finished the song on her own, a tear rolling down her cheekbone as she stared at the picture in her hands.

_Recuérdame..._

The echo of the song faded to silence.

“It’s not fair,” Miguel said, his tone upset. “ _You_ should be the mariachi who’s remembered by the entire world, not De la Cruz!”

“I don’t care about how the rest of the world views me,” Imelda replied, looking at the boy, the sad look still on her face. “I only wanted Coco to remember me…” She sighed, wrapping her arms around her knees as she clutched the photo in her hand. “I’m a horrible excuse for a great-great grandmother, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not!” the boy exclaimed. He wasn’t going to let her blame herself for this, not when she had suffered for years because of De la Cruz. “When I first came here, I knew _nothing_ about my great-great grandmother until I met you. You’ve been so nice to me, helping me out and encouraging me—you’re the mother I wish I had when I was little!” When she started smiling, he knelt closer. “My whole life, I’ve been wondering where my love for music came from… you have no idea how happy I was to find out I wasn’t alone, and that it came from my great-great grandmother—from _you._ ” He stood up and proclaimed, “I’m proud to be your grandson!”

He looked up defiantly at the hole in the cenote. “ _I’m proud to be her family!_ ” he then let out a loud grito.

She perked up at his words. At last, there was a member of her family who didn’t feel any anger towards her. Never before had she felt so overjoyed, so proud. She stood up and let out her own grito, before yelling, “And I’m proud to be _his_ family!”

They traded off their gritos, until the cenote echoed with the sound. As the echoes faded, they hugged each other once more. Even if they were stuck, they at least had each other.

Suddenly, they heard a distant howling. They both looked up, pulling away from the hug.

“Dante?” Miguel asked, recognizing the howl.

The howl got louder—and up at the top of the cenote, the xolo poked his head in the opening.

“Mamá Imelda, look!” The boy pointed up, overjoyed to see the stray dog. “It’s Dante!”

Dante panted, wagging his tail happily. Behind him, Pepita peeked down through the hole and gave a powerful roar, her call shaking the tavern. She lowered her head to reveal Héctor riding atop her.

Both Miguel and Héctor laughed with joy, happy to see one another. However, the seventy-five year-old stopped laughing once his gaze fell upon his wife.

“Héctor!” she cried out, surprised yet delighted to see her husband.

“ _Imelda_ ,” he said through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing.

“Still _muy guapo_ as ever, I see,” she chuckled nervously.

* * *

Moments later, Pepita flew out of the cenote—with Héctor, Miguel, Imelda and Dante riding on her back. The alebrije ascended above the clouds.

Imelda sat behind Miguel and Dante, far from Héctor yet not far enough to the point where she would be holding onto the alebrije’s tail. She felt a little hopeful—if he had bothered to let her actually ride on his spirit guide’s back, then maybe… maybe, he still cared for her, even just a bit.

The wind blew through Miguel’s hair. He hugged Dante fiercely. “You _knew_ she was my Mamá Imelda the whole time! _That_ was why you tried dragging me back to her! You _are_ a real spirit guide!” He rubbed the dog’s back. “Who’s a good spirit guide? You are – yes, you are!”

The xolo smiled at the boy dumbly. Suddenly, before the twelve year-old’s eyes, neon patterns spread outward from the dog’s paws. The stray began to freak out, nipping at his fur, hoping that the neon patterns would fade.

Miguel was astonished by the dog’s transformation. “Whoa…”

A pair of little wings sprouted on the dog’s back. He spread them, then jumped to fly before he plummeted beneath the clouds.

“Dante!”

Soon, he was back up, flapping his wings goofily as he barked his head off—now a full-blown spirit guide.

* * *

Pepita flew in, landing in a small plaza where the other Riveras were waiting.

“There they are!” Julio cried out, pointing at the large alebrije.

They all came rushing up.

“Miguel!”

“Miguelito!”

“Ay, gracias a dios!”

“It’s Miguel!”

“He’s alright!”

“Oh, thank goodness!”

“Gracias, diós mío!”

Miguel and Héctor dismounted Pepita. Imelda looked at her husband as he stood by the jaguar, holding her hand out, hoping he would take it. He did—but as he helped her dismount the alebrije, he gave her a withering look, letting her know that he was still upset with her.

Miguel pat Dante, while Pepita gave him a big lick, causing him to laugh as her tongue tickled him a bit.

Héctor rushed over to Miguel, giving him a big hug. “Oh, mijo – when I saw you on TV with De la Cruz, I feared that I had lost you! Thanks to that xolo, we were able to find you in time!” Then, his eyes fell upon Imelda, who looked a little anxious. “I turned you away _once_ , must I do it again so that the point gets across?”

“Héctor—”

“—you made your choice a long time ago, just as I made mine!” he interrupted her, his voice filled with grief. “For _fifty_   _years_ , I had to provide for the family that _you_ abandoned. My chamaco was with you for five minutes, and yet I find the both of you in a pit!”

Miguel stepped between his great-great grandfather and grandmother. “It was _my_ fault that we were in the sinkhole, not Imelda’s!” he defended the woman. “She was only trying to send me home this entire time. I’ve learned now that she was right. Family is more important than anything else in the world—even music.”

Héctor looked at Imelda, shocked to hear the sentiment.

“I’m willing to accept your blessing and conditions,” the boy continued, “but _only_ if you let me find De la Cruz, so that I can get Imelda’s photo.”

“Chamaco, she left our family behind,” Héctor protested. He didn’t understand, why was this boy so adamant on helping the woman who abandoned them for music?

“No, she didn’t!” Miguel insisted. “She got homesick and tried to return to you and Coco, but De la Cruz _murdered_ her! _He’s_ the reason she wasn’t able to come home in the first place—he’s responsible for all of the suffering that you and Coco went through!”

Surprised at the twelve year-old’s words, Héctor looked at his wife for confirmation.

Imelda nodded, a look on sorrow written across her face. “He speaks the truth, mi amor. I really did try coming home, but that _maldito gilipollas_ poisoned my drink that night.”

Héctor was shocked. All this time, he had thought she had left their family behind on purpose—and yet, it turned out that she had been _murdered_ by De la Cruz as she tried returning home. It all started making sense. Ernesto had always been a horrid man, and it wasn’t like he _wouldn’t_ stoop so low as to kill someone.

And while he was still upset about having to raise his daughter on his own, with the new knowledge of his wife’s death, he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by remorse. He had let his bitterness take over and ripped her face out of their family picture—he made their own daughter forget her, because he’d thought that she had forgotten them. Because of him, she was being forgotten. 

“For so long, I thought that you forgot us,” Héctor began, “but now I know… I’m _so_ sorry, Imelda. It’s all my fault, for making Coco forget you—for keeping you off the ofrenda.”

Imelda shook her head. She wouldn’t let him take the blame, not when she was the one who left in the first place. “Héctor, no. Don’t blame yourself for my—”

She was unable to finish her sentence, as her body suddenly shimmered, causing her to collapse on her knees.

“Mamá Imelda…?” Miguel was worried. She couldn’t fade away, not now.

“My time in this world is running out,” Imelda whispered, clutching her sides in pain.

“Coco…” Héctor trailed off, horrified by the consequences of his own thoughtless actions. How could he have done this to his own wife?

“No one’s forcing you to forgive her,” Miguel started, as he helped his great-great grandmother get back up, while his eyes were on his great-great grandfather, “but she shouldn’t be forgotten just because of some jealous monster.”

“I tried to forget you,” Héctor said to the woman. “I thought that if I did, my heart would surely mend. But I was torn between my heart and my emotions—”

“—it’s my fault,” Imelda interrupted him. “I’m the one who is at fault here, not you. I’m sorry, Héctor.”

He turned to Miguel, and in a shaky voice, he asked: “Once we retrieve her photo, you will go back home? No more instruments?”

“Family is everything,” the boy replied, glancing at his great-great grandmother. “No instrument or any type of music can replace the love a family has.”

Héctor soaked in the child’s words—they were sweet, yet wise as well. He then turned to Imelda. Never in his life did he think that he would be here, facing her again. Fate had such a funny way of bringing a family back together. Despite the bitter feelings he’d once held towards her, he still loved her—he had spent years conflicted over his emotions because of the fact that he could never forget their love. Now that he knew the truth, he wanted to make things right—to set his heart free, along with hers.

And so, after considering it all, he made his choice. He took a deep breath, then spoke, “I forgive you. This was something that wasn’t in your control, so I will help you.”

Miguel smiled, while the other family members stared at the patriarch in complete shock. For so many years, they had witnessed the pain he had gone through because of the woman’s absence—and yet, here he was, offering her his forgiveness and help.

Imelda smiled a little at her husband. For so long, she had wished to hear those words. Now, it seemed as though things were beginning to look up for her. Although she wished to say so much more to him—to tell him everything she could—she knew that there was a more important matter at hand.

Héctor turned back to Miguel. “Do you know how we can get to De la Cruz?” he asked the boy.

Miguel furrowed his brow in determination. “I might know a way…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With regards to Héctor forgiving Imelda: despite his role in this fic, Héctor’s still very much himself. Unlike Imelda, he comes off more as a man who’s more willing to let go of grudges rather than to hold onto them for too long. Obviously, he’s still hurt—but now aware of the truth, I think he’d open up more easily than Imelda did in the film. I’m not sure how else to explain it, aside from what I’ve written above and this little note. I will say this though: as stated, sometimes, it’s best to forgive so that you can set your heart – and yourself – free.  
> To end this off on a good note, though: there’ll be some Imector moments soon! Fluffy stuff, I swear.  
>  **Edit:** I’ve finally come to a decision on the "La Llorona" scene. I hope that despite my choice in the end, y’all will enjoy it.


	13. xii. "la llorona"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the choice I made for how the song number in this chapter would go is probably not what some of you voted for, but… I kept thinking of the option that was more in my ability to write, and well, it turned out to be the first option. Deepest apologies to those who picked the third or second options, but I really couldn’t imagine this scene any other way.  
> On the bright side, there’s some bright(ish) moments in this chapter! On the other hand, De la Cruz is still pretty bad and has a dirty, dirty mouth.
> 
> As for the lyric coding:  
> Héctor’s lyrics = italics  
> Ernesto’s lyrics = bold  
> Both = bolded italics

Before dawn, crowds were congregated at De la Cruz’s Sunrise Spectacular, which took place in an open air amphitheater. They hurried to their seats as the lights began to dim.

On stage, Frida’s performance piece began. Dramatic symphonic music played as a giant papaya appeared to ignite on stage. The “seeds” in the body of the papaya unfurled to reveal that they were dancers—each dressed like Frida Kahlo, right down to the unibrow.

The dancers rolled out of the “flaming” papaya and gyrated their bodies nonsensically.

A giant cactus that resembled Frida was illuminated, and all of the dancers slunk to it—except for an additional eight; the disguised Riveras and Miguel.

In the midst of the performance, they inched their way out of the spotlights, to the wings of the stage.

“Good luck, muchacho,” Frida whispered to Miguel, as the family headed to a backstage corridor.

Miguel had told Papá Héctor to take them to the top floor of the warehouse, where Ceci was preparing costumes for the dancers. Together, both the boy and his great-great grandmother explained the situation to the dressmaker, who immediately agreed to help disguise them. However, Frida had been in ear range of their conversation, and she eventually came in and told them that if they were to hide in the papaya during their act, they could sneak backstage and get the photo from De la Cruz. They all agreed, and so their plan was hatched.

“Muchas gracias, Señora Kahlo!” Miguel thanked the painter, before he joined the rest of his family.

* * *

In a hidden backstage corridor, the Riveras began shedding their Frida costumes.

Miguel ripped off his unibrow, hissing in pain, “Ow!”

Óscar shuddered as Dante crawled out from under his skirt. “Why did he have to go under _there_ of all places?” he muttered to himself.

As Imelda rid herself of her costume, she noticed that while her husband had shed his wig and unibrow, he was still having problems with taking off the dress. “Here,” she said as she approached him, “let me help you with that.”

“Gracias,” Héctor mumbled, as he let the woman unzip the back of his costume. He tried not to shiver from the odd wave of pleasure that briefly washed over him, as he felt her breathe so close to his bones. Once that was over with, he slipped out of his costume.

Victoria glanced at her grandmother for a moment, observing the woman a bit. It was clear as day that she inherited her looks from the twenty-four year-old, which only made it all more difficult for the forty-five year-old. Growing up, she had seen her grandfather often mourning over his lost love—heard him sobbing during the evening sometimes, asking if he hadn’t been enough for his wife. It angered her, to see him so upset because of that _wench._ He worked through blood, sweat and tears to keep the family business going—all because his wife had decided that some musical dream was more important.

Yet now, after discovering the real reason why her grandfather’s wife hadn’t returned, she found herself feeling conflicted over it all. While her Abuelito had forgiven the woman, Victoria didn’t know how to feel. She didn’t want him to get hurt again, yet she could see that he still loved his wife, deep down—and Miguel was right, that Imelda didn’t deserve to be forgotten because of De la Cruz’s actions, but still… it was hard to accept the woman as a part of the family. Still, she would try, for her grandfather’s sake.

She snapped out of her thoughts, however, as the family huddled together.

“Alright, is everyone clear on the plan?” Miguel asked.

“We’re going to retrieve Imelda’s photo,” Rosita began.

“Turn that lousy cabrón’s skull into powder, if we can,” Victoria added, causing the twins to chuckle a bit while the others playfully rolled their eyes.

“Give the photo to Miguel,” Julio continued.

“And send him home as soon as we do so,” Imelda finished.

“Does everyone have their petals?” Héctor questioned.

Each family member raised a hand up, holding a marigold petal. Héctor nodded, then led his family out of the corridor.

“All we have to do now is find Ernesto—”

Right around the corner was Ernesto himself, who turned with a smile. “Yes?”

Héctor yelped as he skid to a stop, while the rest of the family stopped in their tracks, still hidden from De la Cruz’s view—it was just the two of them.

Ernesto’s smile dropped. He could swear that he’d met this man before, but he did not know where, nor did he remember. “Have we met before?”

Héctor’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the man who murdered his wife. He clenched his jaw, before bounding at the forty-eight year-old. He punched the musician across the face, and shouted, “ _That_ was for murdering the love of my life, you _bastardo!_ ”

Ernesto was disoriented by the seventy-five year-old’s words. “Who the—?”

Imelda leaped out from around the corner. “He means me!” she exclaimed, pointing at herself while glaring at her killer, before looking at her husband and swooning. “Am I really the love of your life?” Her metaphorical heart lit up more than a thousand fireworks, as the words echoed through her mind.

Héctor looked at his wife, asking her rhetorically, “Why do you think I never remarried?”

“Imelda?!” Ernesto was shocked to see his former adoptive sibling. “How in the hell did you and that _little_ _shit_ —”

Héctor socked the man in the face again. “And _that’s_ not only for attempting to kill my grandson, but for insulting him in such a vulgar manner as well!”

“Your grandson—” Ernesto tried to speak once more, but was interrupted again.

“ _I’m_ the grandson he’s talking about!” Miguel exclaimed proudly while pointing at himself, as he leapt out of the corner.

“ _You!_ ” Ernesto hissed as he saw the twelve year-old. He then looked at the three of them. “Que lindo,” he mocked them. “Three worthless _imbéciles_ trying to stick up for one another.”

Miguel saw the photo in De la Cruz’s coat pocket. He gasped and pointed at it. “The photo!”

The rest of the Riveras emerged from the corridor, as soon as the words left the boy’s mouth.

Knowing that he was outnumbered, Ernesto kicked the shoemaker and threw him off, slamming him against the wall before he quickly turned and ran.

Héctor’s body hit the wall face first, his glasses shattering on impact. He slumped to the ground and groaned in pain.

“Héctor!” the Rivera family cried out, as they rushed over to help the patriarch. Imelda and Miguel helped him get up, while the twins picked up the remains of his spectacles.

“Estás bien, amor?” Imelda asked her husband, concerned for her husband’s well-being.

Héctor nodded. “Yes,” he grunted as he stood up on his feet, “I’m fine.”

“Hermano, your glasses,” Felipe started, as he held up bits of broken glass. “They’re—”

“—broken beyond repair,” Óscar finished, holding up the empty frames.

Héctor squinted a little as he looked at the broken eyewear. While he wasn’t completely blind, he still lacked most of the vision in his right eye, which didn’t help out the left one that much. Still, he knew there were more important things to worry about. “No worries,” he dismissed it. “I’m only blind in one eye. I’ve still got the other.”

He took a step forward, releasing himself from the gentle grip of his wife and grandson. “Right now, we must go after that man and get that photo back!”

Everyone else nodded, and ran down the direction the musician had fled.

* * *

Ernesto knocked over a group of giant sugar skull dancers. He emerged at a full sprint to where his rising platform was set up.

“Security, ayuadame!” he called out.

The Riveras flooded out after him. Imelda jogged next to Héctor, still swooning over his words from before.

“You called me the ‘love of your life’,” she said excitedly, her hopes being lifted, knowing that there was a chance that he still loved her.

“Our papers still mark us as ‘esposo y esposa’,” he replied, rolling his eyes while a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Anger doesn’t always equal hatred, you know!”

“Oh yeah, we _sure_ know now,” Miguel spoke smugly, with a cheeky little grin on his face.

As the family came near towards the rising platform, a brawl ensued between them and the guards.

Julio was the first one to charge at the guards, sliding a bit before kicking one over. Noticing how her father fought the black-suited men, Victoria quickly stomped on the leg of the guard he had knocked over.

Óscar and Felipe were cornered by three guards. The twins smirked at each other, before Felipe ripped off his older brother’s arms and used them as nunchucks against two of the guards, while Óscar head-butted the third.

Ernesto kept on running, with Héctor not too far behind him. Imelda, Miguel and Rosita had been trailing behind the shoemaker, but were stopped by two guards.

“Places, señor, you’re on in thirty seconds!” the stagehand spoke. Despite his nice tone of voice, Ernesto shoved him out of the way.

As the security guards tried to wrangle with Imelda, Miguel and Rosita—failing miserably in doing so—Héctor reached De la Cruz and grabbed his wife’s photo. Ernesto scuffled with the shoemaker, trying to get ahold of the photo again.

Héctor let out a cry, just as Rosita slammed a guard’s head into the ground. Miguel gasped and ran over to De la Cruz, tackling him to the ground. The musician lost his grip, while the shoemaker tumbled backward, photo in hand.

“Chamaco, I got the photo!” he cried out triumphantly.

The boy turned toward his great-great grandfather smiling, but ran as he was chased by the remaining guards.

Suddenly, Héctor began to rise into the air. He gasped as he noticed that he was on the rising platform. He was lifted through the ceiling, up to the stage.

Ernesto hurried up the stairs after him.

Miguel was about to be detained by a security guard, when Dante flew in and knocked the guard’s head clean off.

“Hurry, come on!” Miguel urged the rest of his family to follow him up the stairs, after De la Cruz. Julio, Óscar and Felipe blocked the guards from following them.

* * *

“Ladies and gentlemen… the one and only… Ernesto de la Cruz!”

The platform rose onto the stage and the spotlight fell on Héctor. Neon letters flashed brightly behind him, spelling “ERNESTO!” The audience burst into applause.

“Nesto!” a crowd member called out.

Héctor appeared onscreen for all to see.

Ernesto rushed up a staircase and arrived in the wings. He got the attention of his guards and pointed at Héctor, hissing, “Get that old fucker off the stage!”

The guards hustled onto the stage, scaling the set to get to him.

At the stage wing left, Miguel, Imelda, Victoria and Rosita emerged to see Héctor spotlit above them.

De la Cruz’s guards began to approach Héctor. He froze, anxious and unable to move.

“Go ahead, sing and dance!” Miguel instructed his great-great grandfather.

Héctor looked down and saw the boy in the wing. It had been ninety-two years since he had sung and dance. He didn’t know if he still had it in him, or if his age had ruined his skills. _Then again_ , he thought to himself, _there’s only one way to find out._

“Do it _now!_ ” the boy urged him.

Seeing that the guards were approaching, Héctor  closed his eyes, grabbed the microphone and followed Miguel’s instructions.

_Ay de mí, Llorona,_

_Llorona de azul celeste…_

Imelda’s eyes widened as she heard her husband’s singing. Although there was some husk to his voice, it still sounded just as tender as it did, many years ago.

Victoria and Rosita looked at each other, both shocked at the fact that the same man who had banned music from the family was now singing in front of a large audience.

Miguel quickly handed a guitar over to Imelda, then adjusted a mic stand in front of her. Imelda strummed the guitar’s strings, its sound amplifying through the stage speakers.

_Ay de mí, Llorona,_

_Llorona de azul celeste…_

The guards reached the edge of his spotlight but stopped short, not wanting to interrupt the performance.

Héctor took the spotlight with him as he descended on the stage staircase. As he came down, he made eye contact with his wife in the wing. She smiled as she accompanied him, her eyes glistening a bit. He gave her a loving look, touched by her support, despite how cold he’d been towards her in the past.

_Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona,_

_No dejaré de quererte_

As Imelda accompanied him by playing the guitar, Héctor began to feel more confident. And so, he sung louder with more passion as he jumped onto the stage.

_No dejaré de quererte!_

The stage conductor joined with more instrumentation, which kicked into high gear.

The audience began to clap, while Ernesto grunted in frustration.

  _Me subí al pino más alto, Llorona,_

_A ver si te divisaba_

Héctor burst out some percussive footwork to the rhythm of his wife’s guitar, taking the spotlight with him as he moved to put distance between himself and the guards. 

He even let some of his limbs come apart so that he could dodge the guards, causing the audience to go wild at his unique dancing skills, while they clapped along to the song.

“Whoa…” Miguel whispered, in awe of how his great-great grandfather’s limbs came apart so easily and how he danced across the stage, the tapping of his shoes echoing along with the sound of music.

Imelda was smiling as her husband’s dancing reminded her of the good old days, when they were alive, together and happy.

_Como el pino era tierno, Llorona_

_Al verme llorar, Lloraba_

One guard attempted to block the shoemaker’s path, but Héctor’s body split in half as he shoved the guard. Feeling ashamed by his defeat, the guard ran off the stage.

Héctor’s body came back together, as he looked at Imelda, who was grinning. Clutching the photo in his hand, he grinned as well and began to leave the stage, running towards his wife.

_Ay de mí, Llorona, Llorona,_

_Llorona de azul celeste…_

However, he was soon stopped as a hand grabbed a hold of his wrist. He turned, and saw Ernesto, who was giving him a look as if he were saying _I got you._

The spotlight shone on them, causing the crowd to go even more wild.

  ** _Ay de mí, Llorona, Llorona,_**

**_Llorona de azul celeste_ **

****Héctor tried to run away, but Ernesto yanked at his arm. The forty-eight year-old spun the seventy-five year-old around, before he tried to grab the photo, but the shoemaker wouldn’t let go.

Imelda watched the scene, gritting her teeth as rage burned within her. Miguel had his hands on her shoulders, holding her back so that she wouldn’t do anything drastic yet.

**_Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona,_ **

**_No dejaré de quererte_ **

Ernesto’s eyes narrowed. He picked up the shoemaker, hoisting him above his head as he tried retrieving the photo.

“Put me down, hijo de perra!” Héctor hissed, kicking his legs as he tried to break free from the musician’s grasp.

Ernesto dropped the shoemaker, before he then grabbed his wrist, attempting to pull the photo out of his hands. Héctor got up a bit and yanked back his arm, as if it were a tug of war. 

They spun a bit as they moved across the stage, before Ernesto kicked Héctor, causing the other man to stumble back a bit. 

The musician grabbed the photo, then made his way to the front of the stage, still singing.

**Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona,**

**No dejaré de quererte,**

**No dejaré de quererte**

Héctor ran up to Ernesto, but was soon caught and trapped in a headlock. He struggled to break free, but to no avail—the forty-eight year-old’s hold on him was too strong.

**No dejaré de quererte!**

**Ay, ay, ay!**

Suddenly, an idea came into Héctor’s mind. It disgusted him a little, but if it meant getting his wife’s photo back, then so be it.

Near the end of the song, he bit Ernesto’s arm on his high note, causing the musician to let him go. He snatched the photo back, then ran off stage with it.

* * *

As Héctor ran backstage, he felt like he was high on adrenaline—to the point where he felt like he was high above the clouds. He embraced Imelda, twirling her around a bit as he hugged her.

The woman was taken by surprise, but nevertheless, she returned the hug for a moment.

Then, realizing how undignified he was being, Héctor pulled away from the hug and scratched his arm nervously. “Even after all these years, you’ve still got it,” he whispered.

“And you’re still an amazing dancer, for a shoemaker,” Imelda replied.

They both smiled at each other, their expressions softening.

Miguel cleared his throat, “Ahem.” There was a smug smile on his face, as he noticed how hopelessly in love the two were—still, there was one part of the plan left.

“Oh, right – we need to get you home!” Héctor exclaimed, reminded of what needed to be done. He gave the twelve year-old the photo, then pulled out his petal. “Miguel, I give you my blessing.”

The petal glowed a little.

“To go home,” Héctor continued, “to put our photos up on the ofrenda…” He gestured to his wife and himself as he spoke. “And to never—”

“—never play music again?” Miguel interrupted, looking slightly saddened. Still, he was ready to accept the condition regardless of how he felt, because he knew his family was much more important.

Héctor grinned at the boy as he spoke, “To _never_ forget how strong the love your family has for you is, chamaco.”

The petal surged. Miguel brightened, touched by his great-great grandfather’s words.

Imelda placed a hand on Héctor’s arm as she stepped closer to the boy. “You’ll finally be back home, mijo,” she told him.

Just as the boy was about to reach out and grab the petal, he was yanked away from his great-great grandparents as a familiar voice shouted, “You’re not going _anywhere!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger again, couldn’t help it.  
> In all seriousness though, guys, I’m a little nervous. We’re getting so close to the ending, and I’m kind of sad because I don’t want this to be over just yet. I expected to finish it by October, not in September. But oh well, I guess all stories must end.  
> Either way, I hope y’all will still stick around for the end of this writing journey.  
> For the dancing parts, I'm sorry if it comes off as unexpected and not what some would prefer but that’s just how I envisioned it all; more of a "fight" compared to its canon counterpart, which was 99% dancing and 1% fight.  
> Oh, and P.S.: an extra content warning in the tags may be added due to the next chapter being a little more darker than its canon counterpart. I won't go into detail other than that, but... I warn you, it won't be pretty.


	14. xiii. the last showdown & sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember when I said this chapter would be dark? I wasn’t kidding. It gets ugly, real quick. That "graphic violence" tag don’t lie.  
> Anyways, with that said: the razzy award for _Worst Human Being Ever_ goes to Ernesto de la Cruz!

Héctor charged at Ernesto, but was knocked back as the man punched him right in the jaw.

Imelda rushed over to her husband’s side, kneeling beside him. “Héctor—”

“Stay back!” Ernesto yelled, dragging Miguel away as his family approached. He wrapped his hand around the boy’s throat, squeezing it tightly for demonstration. “If any of you try taking one more step, this kid’s breathing will cease!”

The family looked on in horror as Miguel struggled to pry the man’s hands off his neck, gasping for air. They wanted to help the child, but at the same time, they feared risking his life.

Only Imelda took a few steps forward, but she soon fell to the ground as her body shimmered like before. “ _Please_ don’t hurt him,” she begged. “Your fight is with me, not him. He’s a little boy—”

“—for _years_ , I have worked hard to get to where I am now,” Ernesto interrupted her. “If you think I’m going to let this _damn child_ ruin everything, then you’re wrong!”

Meanwhile, in the stage wing, Rosita commandeered one of the cameras, pointing it towards De la Cruz. It was risky, but she knew that the truth about the man had to be exposed, before it was too late. She quickly shot a look at her niece.

Victoria noticed what her aunt was doing, and nodded as sidled up to a control board, pushing the volume dial up.

“He’s only twelve, Ernesto!” Imelda yelled. “He’s done nothing to deserve your anger!”

“His relation to you threatens my entire reputation!” Ernesto shouted.

Little did the man know that the image of strangling the child that he held hostage was projected on the stadium screens. The audience gasped as they watched the scene unfold.

Miguel continued to struggle against Ernesto, as the man continued, “If I let him go back to the Land of the Living, he’ll not only put up your photo and preserve your memory, but he will blurt out the truth and ruin my name!”

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a musician!” Miguel choked out.

“I am Ernesto de la Cruz!” the man hissed at the boy. “I am a legend, known not only by all within this country, but by those all across Latinoamerica! _I am immortal!_ ”

“Imelda is the true artist behind it all!” the boy shot back. “You’re just the jealous guy who murdered her and stole her songs just because she wanted to go back home to her family! You two grew up together and were practically like siblings, and yet _you_ _poisoned her!_ ”

The crowd was left gobsmacked by the child’s words, murmuring things such as “poisoned his own sister?”, “murder?” and “that poor child” amongst themselves.

“That _dirty slut_ got what she deserved for nearly jeopardizing my dream!” Ernesto defended himself, tightening his grip on Miguel’s neck. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to seize my moment, and if that means letting a _nobody_ like you rot here just like that _little cunt_ …” He smirked, as he then whispered, “Then so it be it.”

To everyone’s horror, he threw the boy off the structure. The audience gasped, while some shrieked at what they were witnessing.

“ _NO, MIJO!_ ” Imelda screamed, reaching a hand out as she watched her great-great grandson fall.

The rest of the family ran to the ledge, each of yelling out the twelve year-old’s name, “ _Miguel!_ ”

Ernesto crossed from the ledge. As he walked by Imelda, he sneered at her, “Sorry, mi hermana, but the show must go on…”

“But he – he was a living boy with a family waiting for him!” she sobbed, filled with despair. “He didn’t deserve to be strangled and thrown off a building!”

Ernesto ignored her, as he stepped up to the curtain and slicked back his hair.

* * *

As he was falling, Miguel clutched his great-great grandmother’s photo in his hand. He let out a few shaky breaths, while he thought to himself, _I’m sorry, Mamá Imelda…_

Dante sliced downward through the air, catching the the twelve year-old’s red jacket in his teeth and opened his wings. He and the boy jerked upward, but the photo slipped out of the boy’s hands and was blown away by the wind.

Miguel’s eyes widened as his arms reached out, flailing as the photo disappeared from his sight.

The two twisted in the air, as the xolo tried to slow their descent but they were both too heavy. Miguel’s jacket came off, and the boy plummeted towards the base of the tower.

He closed his eyes as he braced himself for the impact—but it never came, as Pepita suddenly flew in and scooped up the child, with Dante following close behind.

As they flew up, Miguel looked over the side of Pepita, down towards the water.

The photo fell on the surface of the water, before sinking to the bottom.

The boy felt his heart sink as he realized that that the photo was lost.

* * *

Ernesto emerged to his audience, and let out a laugh as he was found by a spotlight, “Haha!”

He was not met by a round of applause and cheers, but by the crowd’s booing. _Why are they acting like this?_ he wondered, confused. _They should be cheering for me, not booing me!_

“Dirty, rotten thief!” a crowd member yelled out.

“Child murderer!”

Ernesto chuckled nervously at their accusations. “Please, please, mi familia!”

“We refuse to be the familia of someone who murdered his own sister and choked a little boy!” another member of the crowd shouted.

“Vete al demonio!”

“ _Get off the stage!_ ”

As he was met by more booing, he tried to kick up the orchestra, “Maestro! A one, a two, a one—”

The conductor narrowed his eyes at the murderer and snapped his baton. There was even more booing.

Realizing he was losing the audience’s respect, he tried singing, _“Recuérdame, hoy me tengo—”_

Someone amongst the crowd threw a tomato at him, hitting and staining his coat.

“Hey!” he cried out in surprise, before trying to duck as more fruit, bread and other offerings were pelted at him.

A woman in the audience glared for a moment, before she looked up and pointed at the screens. “ _Look!_ ”

The other crowd members began to point up to the screen, as Pepita rose above the ledge with Miguel on her back. The boy slid off her wing and quickly ran to his family, embracing them as he began to breathe in and out rapidly.

“He’s alive!” a crowd member cried out. Everyone else cheered, while there were sighs of relief.

After seeing it play out on screen, Ernesto glanced back at the crowd as he realized that the crimes he had committed backstage—and the crime he had admitted to committing—had been projected to the whole world. His eyes darted back to the screen, and he watched in fear as Pepita grew larger and larger on the screen, as she prowled past the camera.

He began to back up, just as the jaguar emerged through the curtain, her eyes locked on him.

“Nice kitty,” he said nervously, waving his hand a bit.

Suddenly, Pepita headbutted Ernesto and lifted him into the sky, flinging him around in the air as if he were a ball of yarn.

The audience laughed and cheered at the singer’s misfortune, while a cameraman filmed the whole thing.

“Put me down, please!” the singer screeched. “I beg of you, stop! Stop! NO!”

But Pepita wouldn’t stop. This man had killed her master’s wife, and hurt their grandson—for that, he would _pay._

She swung him around a bit to gain momentum, then kicked her legs, throwing him over the audience.

He flew out of the stadium. His eyes widened in fear as he saw a large church bell in the distance.

“NO! _AHHHH!_ ”

He hit the side of the church bell, before he fell underneath it. He gasped as it shook for a moment, before it fell on top of him—crushing him and trapping him, just as that other bell had in 1942.

In the midst of the audience’s cheering, an unsuspecting crowd member returned from the concessions, carrying two bags of popcorn in his hands. “What did I miss?”

* * *

Backstage, Miguel was surrounded by his family, safe as ever while he was slowly starting to breathe normally again. He hugged Dante, patting the xolo’s neon fur as he whispered, “Good boy.”

“Chamaco!” Héctor cried out, before ran over to Miguel and embraced him. The family watched the hug, smiling a little.

Behind them, Imelda got up on her feet, but stumbled to the ground with a flicker. “Miguel, mijo,” she whispered, a small smile on her face, “thank goodness you’re safe…”

Miguel ran over to support her, helping her get onto her knees. “Mamá Imelda! The photo – I lost it,” he said, feeling guilty. First, he had discarded it, then he had let De la Cruz take a hold of it, and now he had lost it forever.

“It’s okay, mijo,” she attempted to console him. “As long as you’re—” Suddenly, as she was speaking, the woman suffered the most violent flickering she’d ever experienced, causing her to collapse.

Miguel knelt by her. “Mamá Imelda?!”

Héctor went over to his wife, holding her body close while he cradled her head in his hands.

She could barely move her limbs as she uttered, “Coco…”

“No!” Miguel yelled, determined to fix everything. He couldn’t let his great-great grandmother be forgotten—not when he had only recently realized how much she meant to him. “We can go down there and try to find the photo. You can still make it, I know you can…”

Héctor looked to the horizon, as the rays of sunlight were just peeking over. “Miguel, the sun is starting to rise! You need to go home now!”

Miguel shook his head at his great-great grandfather. “No, no, no – I can’t leave Mamá Imelda.” He looked at his great-great grandmother and continued, “I promised I’d put your photo up. I promised you’d see Coco!”

Imelda looked at Miguel. The skeletal transformation was creeping in on the edges of the boy’s face—he was almost a full skeleton now. “Time’s up for us, mijo.” The shimmering of her bones began to advance, now.

“No, no…” Tears threatened to spill down the boy’s cheeks. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Everything was supposed to be okay. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. “Your daughter can’t forget you!”

“I only wanted my little girl to know that Mamá still cared about her and loved her,” Imelda spoke softly, her voice filled with regret. She mustered up the strength to grab the marigold petal.

“Mamá Imelda—”

“You have our blessing, mijo,” she told her great-great grandson, as she struggled to lift the petal to him. It glowed brightly.

Héctor took her hand into his, smiling sadly at their grandson. “There’s no conditions this time. You’re going home freely.”

The boy was filled with remorse. He had failed his grandmother, for he was too late. “No, Mamá Imelda! _Please!_ ” he begged, grabbing her other arm and shaking it.

Óscar took his hat off, while Felipe wrapped an arm around Rosita as they watched on with sympathy. Victoria bit her lip as she and Julio looked at the living boy, the family patriarch and his wife.

Even if they were a bit hesitant about letting the woman back in due to the (albeit, unintentional) pain she put Héctor through with her absence, they still felt bad about the situation she was in—no innocent person deserved to suffer the Final Death.

Dante whimpered, his wings folding down.

Imelda and Héctor moved their joined hands towards Miguel’s chest.

The woman’s eyelids began to close, as she smiled at the twelve year-old and whispered, “The only thing I want you do to when you get home is to live, and cherish life while you still can…”

“I will!” Miguel nodded quickly, before he added, “And I promise I won’t let Coco forget you—”

There was a whirlwind of marigold petals—and in a few seconds, the boy was gone.

“We did it, amor,” Imelda murmured, as she saw that they successfully sent the boy home. Even if she wouldn’t be able to see her daughter again, at least her grandson was safe in the Land of the Living. “He’s finally back home, safe and sound.”

Héctor stared at his wife for a moment, before he stood up, still holding her in his arms.

He began to walk past the curtains, ignoring the audience’s whispering as he headed for the backstage corridors. The others trailed behind him, as he began his way back to the shoe shop they called home while carrying his wife in his arms.

“Wh—where are we going?” Imelda asked, confused by his actions, and why he continued to hold her so close to him despite her past actions. “And why are you carrying me…?”

“We’re going home,” he answered, placing a kiss on her forehead. “And I’m carrying you because it’s the least I can do for _mi esposa._ ”

“It’s nice that you still care for me, even if I don’t deserve it,” she remarked. Her body shimmered a bit, though not as violently as before.

“Shhh,” he shushed her. “You deserve to be cared for, especially in this condition…”

There was so much that he wanted to say to her—but for now, he had to get her back home and tend to her.

While he had a bit of hope that she would make it, he still wanted to make sure that even if she didn’t, she’d at least be cared for in her last moments.

It was the least he could do to make it up to her, for all of his mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t plan for the last bit to happen, but I figured that a semi-hopeful ending was necessary since, well, you know. Oh, and you guys have NO idea how long I’ve waited to write Ernesto’s defeat; since the beginning, I’ve been planning this scene out and now that I’ve finally written it, I feel complete satisfaction.  
> Either way, the next chapter takes place in the Land of the Living once again and _will_ have more happy moments, I swear.  
>  We’re only a few steps closer to the ending. Just three more chapters, and this fic will be complete. However, this won't be the end of this AU series! I will be doing a one-shot/drabble collection on Héctor and Imelda prior to the next Día de los Muertos, along with more prequel one-shots and just more fics in general. So, stay tuned for those, because this series ain't over yet!  
> P.S.: the part where Héctor was holding Imelda in his arms was based directly off [this piece of art, by archie-shkin (who's sadly recently deactivated their tumblr)](https://78.media.tumblr.com/fc1e4c12f8c4bd70360a38b615fda821/tumblr_pd8u5mJHL61wjes5yo2_1280.jpg).


	15. xiv. "recuérdame"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take a moment to thank all of you for your wonderful comments. Your support has help me come a long way, and it means the world to me.  
> I hope that when I do get started on the one-shot collection, it will be just as entertaining as this fic was.  
> So without further ado, here’s the next chapter. I admit, I feel conflicted about this one, but hey, we’re getting closer to the end so I can’t complain much.
> 
> Miguel’s lyrics = italics  
> Both = bolded italics

Miguel opened his eyes and looked through the windows, to see that the sun had already risen over the horizon. He was back in the Land of the Living—in De la Cruz’s tomb.

On the floor across from him was the skull guitar. He grabbed it and ran out of the tomb, taking off out of the cemetery.

He raced through the plaza, past Ernesto’s statue, through the streets towards home. He blew past Berto and Abel who were sleeping on a bench.

Berto jolted awake, causing his eldest son to fall off the bench. He pointed ahead towards Miguel. “There he is!”

Enrique came around a corner as Miguel was running. When he spotted his son, he reached his hand out and yelled, “Miguel, stop!”

But the boy paid no heed to his father’s word, as his mind focused on making sure Imelda’s memory lived on—that she wasn’t forgotten.

He rounded the corner and followed the trail of marigolds through the front gate.

He ran towards Coco’s bedroom, but just as he was nearing the doorway, Elena stepped up and blocked his path.

“Where have you been all night?!” she demanded. “We were searching for you all night! We were worried that you might have been kidnapped or—” She stopped for a moment, as she saw that there was redness around his neck, along with scratch marks and thumb bruising. “What happened to you? _Who did this?!_ ”

“There’s no time to explain,” the boy said quickly, looking over his grandmother’s shoulders. “I need to see Mamá Coco, please—”

“Not until we get that swelling treated!” Elena was about to take the boy’s hand and lead him back into the house, when she spied the guitar in his hands. “And why do you have a guitar?! Give it to me—”

Miguel pushed past his grandmother, slamming the door shut behind him. He locked it, so that she wouldn’t come in and drag him out.

“Miguel! Stop!” she yelled as she pounded her fists on the door. “ _MIGUEL!_ ”

Miguel went up to Coco. His great-grandmother stared into space, her eyes completely vacant.

“Mamá Coco, can you hear me?” he questioned her. “It’s Miguel.” He looked into her eyes and continued, “Last night, I met your mamá. Remember, _Mamá?_ Please – if you forget her, she’ll be gone and you’ll never see her again!”

She didn’t respond.

Enrique banged on the door, yelling, “Miguel, open this door!”

The twelve year-old showed his great-grandmother the guitar. “Here – this was her guitar, right? She used to strum its strings, as she played to you every night?” He put the guitar down, as he held up the torn picture of her and her parents. “See, there’s Mamá!” Her eyes were glazed. He turned her face towards him. “Mamá, remember? _Mamá!_ ”

Coco stared forward, as if the boy wasn’t even there.

“Miguel!” his father cried out.

“Por favor, Mamá Coco,” the boy begged, his voice hoarse, as he stood up. “Try to remember her.”

With a rattle of keys, the door flew open and the family poured in.

“What are you doing to that poor woman?” Elena asked, before brushing her grandson aside to comfort her mother. “It’s okay, Mamita, it’s okay.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Enrique asked sternly, as he approached his son from behind while crossing his arms.

Miguel looked down, feeling defeated. Tears dripped off his nose.

Enrique’s anger gave away to relief. He embraced his son. “I thought we lost you, mijo…”

“I’m sorry, Papá,” the boy mumbled an apology.

“Miguel, your neck,” Luisa said, concerned as she saw the bruises, “what happened to you last night?”

“Why does it matter?” the twelve year-old murmured. “There’s other things to worry about, like how this family is still incomplete…”

Elena turned to her grandson. “Miguel, apologize to Mamá Coco now,” she ordered. “And once you do, you will come back inside the house and explain to us why you look as though you were nearly choked to death by a local gang leader.”

Miguel wiped away his tears as he looked at Coco, approaching her. “Mamá Coco…”

His toe accidentally tapped against Imelda’s skull guitar, and a soft hollow ringing resonated within him.

“Well?” Elena tapped her foot. “ _Apologize._ ”

The boy came to a realization that maybe, just maybe, playing some music for his great-grandmother could solve the problem. He picked up the guitar and knelt down next to her. “Mamá Coco? Your mamá – she wanted you to have her guitar.”

Elena’s eyes narrowed as she stepped forward to intervene, but Enrique placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Mamá, wait—”

Miguel started to sing the lullaby his great-great grandmother had written, just like how she’d sung it—soft and tender, pouring all of his heart and soul into the melody.

_Recuérdame,_

_Hoy me tengo que ir mi amor_

_Recuérdame,_

_No llores por favor_

“Look,” Luisa said, as everyone’s eyes widened.

The glimmer in Coco’s eyes grew brighter with every note, as memories of her mother flooded in, filling the vacancy of her expression with life. Her cheeks softened and plumped, while her lips curved into a smile.

_Te llevo en mi corazón y cerca me tendrás,_

_A solas yo te cantaré soñando en regresar_

_Recuérdame,_

_Aunque tenga que emigrar_

Miguel sung gently, with love dripping from his voice.

Coco’s brows lifted, as she was delighted. The song was slowly, but surely bringing life back into her just when hope seemed to be lost.

Elena couldn’t bring herself to say anything. No one could. Instead, they all stepped a little closer, as they watched the scene.

Overflowed with love, Coco joined Miguel in the song—her voice scratchy due to old age, while his was clear with youth.

_**Recuérdame,** _

_**Si mi guitarra oyes llorar** _

_**Ella con su triste canto te acompañará,** _

_**Hasta que en mis brazos tú estés** _

_**Recuérdame...** _

Tears streamed down Elena’s face, as she witnessed the miracle. Since she was a little girl, she had thought that music could only bring suffering and pain to her family, as she had bore witness to her grandfather’s pain—yet now, seeing her mother so alive made her reconsider things a bit, as she was filled with joy.

Coco looked at her younger daughter, and was troubled by the tears that spilled down her cheeks. “Elena? Is something wrong, mija?”

Elena shook her head a bit as she sniffled. “Nothing, Mamá. Nothing at all.”

Coco turned to Miguel. “My mamá used to sing that song to me every night when I was just a small child. It was our lullaby.”

“She loved you, Mamá Coco,” Miguel told her, tears spilling down his cheeks. “She loved you so much, that she tried to come back home… to show her little girl that she still cared…”

A smile spread across Coco’s face. She had waited a long time to hear those words.

She turned to her nightstand, her hand shaking as she opened a drawer and pulled out a notebook. “I hid these… kept her letters… poems she wrote me, and…”

She flipped through the book’s pages, revealing a torn scrap of paper. It was the missing face from the family photo—Imelda’s face.

Coco gave the scrap of paper to Miguel, who pieced the picture back together as he finally saw Imelda as she was in life—a young, beautiful woman; the perfect mother.

“Mamá was a musician—a mariachi,” Coco spoke slowly, with fondness and love. “In the early years of my childhood, she and Papá would sing such _beautiful_ songs together. It was all so wonderful…”

The family gathered close to listen.

* * *

While Miguel might have disobeyed his grandmother a little with the apology, he did obey her in the aspect of coming back inside the house and explaining his bruises to her. 

After Imelda’s photo was taped back to the family picture and placed on the ofrenda where it belonged, they all headed back inside their little home.

As his grandmother applied an ice pack to his neck, the family listened in as the boy told them everything—how he had broken into the tombs and stole the guitar and got himself cursed and met their dead relatives, how he bumped into Imelda and that they didn’t recognize each other as family at first, how they had traveled around together and had so much fun before their argument, how he had met Ernesto before Imelda came in and they both realized their relation along with the truth of how she died; he told them everything that had happened, from the moment he ran away to the events at the Sunrise Spectacular.

Once he finished, there was a moment of silence as his family stared at him in shock.

Then, Berto spoke up, “Well, that explains _a lot._ ”

“Like the bruises and scratch marks—seriously, you looked like you came out of a scuffle from a horror film,” Abel remarked, while Rosa nodded.

“And why we couldn’t find you at the graveyard or the plaza,” Gloria added.

“ _And_ why you took that guitar in the first place, and sung to Mamá Coco,” Franco finished.

Miguel was surprised by their reactions. He had expected his story to be dismissed or ridiculed, as he was so used to his family not supporting him. “You… you mean you all actually _believe me?_ ”

“Well,” Elena started, “it is a lot to take in, but…it does clear up the issue that has been plaguing our family tree, ever since my abuelita disappeared.”

“So…what does this mean for us now, exactly?” Miguel asked, slightly hopeful that he could get the chance to prove to the world that his great-great grandmother was the true musician.

Enrique stepped up to his son, a look of determination in his eyes. “We’re going to take matters to the authorities, and clear things up once and for all.”

And so they did—they took the case to the police, with the evidence being Imelda’s letters; one in particular referring to De la Cruz’s sudden change in behavior and attitude, which the officers took as a sign of jealousy. In order to finally draw an accurate conclusion, the chief officer called the lead historian on Ernesto, eighty year-old Joaquín Arango.

At first, Joaquín studied the letters carefully, noting the dates. Then, he pulled out a picture, holding it up to Miguel and Enrique. “A long time ago, I paid a visit to the orphanage where Señor de la Cruz once lived,” he spoke. “I found this picture, taken back in 1910—however, I was wondering who this little girl is.”

In the picture was a ten year-old Imelda and a sixteen year-old Ernesto. They stood far from all the other orphans, and were smiling at one another.

Miguel immediately recognized the girl’s smile, as he knew it all too well. “That’s her!” he exclaimed, pointing at the picture. “That’s Mamá Imelda!”

With the date of Imelda’s final letter being May 22nd—only _weeks_ before June, the month De la Cruz made his debut—the police and Señor Arango both concluded that not only was Señora Rivera the true artist behind everything, but also that Ernesto de la Cruz was nothing but a lying, murderous fraud.

As soon as the case was closed, Enrique and Miguel rushed home to tell the family the good news.

“With all the evidence we gave them and with Señor Arango’s own piece of proof, Mamá Imelda’s true genius will be known all around the country by tomorrow morning!” Enrique told the family.

Both the adults and the children cheered at the news.

Then, Miguel looked at Elena and asked, “Abuelita, now that the truth has come out, will the music ban be lifted?”

His grandmother paused for a moment, as she contemplated it. For the longest time, she had grown up associating music with the grandmother who had abandoned her mother and grandfather—but after learning the truth and seeing how her youngest grandchild’s singing affected her mother in such a positive way, she decided that perhaps, it was time the ban was put to an end. Sure, it would take some time for her to get used to hearing music, but if it made her mother happy, then she would try for her sake.

“Sí,” she answered.

Miguel then let out a loud grito, causing everyone to laugh.

Finally, Mamá Imelda was given some justice and her place in the family was secure. Now, she would be remembered _and_ music would finally be allowed again.

Everything was perfect, at long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this wasn’t as particularly lengthy as the others, but honestly I didn’t know how else to write the bits with Miguel telling the truth and all... woops. Sorry if the writing isn’t perfect, I just didn't have much else to work with after the reunion.  
> As for the music ban being lifted, I could technically have had Elena keep it going with the excuse "well my grandma is dead because of music" and Miguel getting the entire living family cursed just so he can finally play a damn guitar but let’s be real: it’s best to just have it lifted. Besides, that’s a "what-if" scenario for another time.  
> For the next chapter, we’ll be seeing Héctor and Imelda talking it out; essentially the latter being stubborn about her beliefs except reversed and the former being a total sweetheart. In general, it’ll be Imector angst and fluff.  
> Anyway, that’s about it for now. See ya in the next one!


	16. xv. making things right between us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I got to write these two finally talking it all out. Sure, it’s short again, but hey it’s at least something.  
> Now, honestly… I’m kinda sad that this fic is coming to an end, but at least the series will continue on with the drabbles.  
> Anyway, have some Imector!

There was an awkward silence in the air.

Just a couple of hours ago, Héctor had carried Imelda home and laid her down on his bed, tending to her and trying to soothe the pain that came with every shimmer in her body with soft whispers such as “you’ll be fine” and “rest, cariño.”

But then, the shimmering stopped—and just as they both braced themselves for the Final Death to claim the woman, it never came. She was still there at his home, lying on his bed.

They then realized that Miguel had kept his promise, and saved her just in time.

Even then, though, that still didn’t prevent the tension between the husband and wife—which had been so uneasy to the point where he stepped out of the bedroom, leaving her alone for a while. Despite all that had been discovered, they had still spent so many years apart because of her death and his mistakes.

Still, Héctor wanted to try and make this work—to make things right between them again. He had spent the night worrying about losing her to the Final Death—now that she was still here with him, he wanted her to stay with him.

And so, he took a breath in and exhaled, before he opened the door and entered the bedroom.

Imelda was sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor with a blank expression while she had her arms wrapped around her legs.

Héctor slowly walked over to his wife. Once he approached her, he asked in a soft voice, “Are you alright, Imelda?”

Imelda looked up at him and stared for a moment.

Recovery was such a difficult subject. It had been such a long time since they were able to actually talk to each other, that she feared that she wouldn’t be able to resolve things but make them _worse_ instead. Even with the things they had learned, things were still far from being completely fixed. It would take a long for them to actually recover from everything that had happened.

She registered his words in her head. He had asked her if she was okay, and it was confounding how—despite the pain he had gone through because of her—he still cared about her and how she felt.

“I’m—I’m fine, thank you,” she struggled to get the words out. Truth be told, she wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay, and it would never be okay. Despite the strong, passionate feelings she held towards him, she knew that the damage had been done the moment she left. She was no longer good enough for him.

He noticed how her voice shook a little as she stammered, sensing the uneasiness in her tone. “Are you sure?” he questioned her, looking into her eyes.

Her lip quivered for a few seconds, as she let out a few shaky breaths. Tears began building up in her eyes. She had always been a terrible liar. “No,” she choked out. “I’m sorry, Héctor. I’m sorry for _everything._ Because of me, you had to go through so much and…” she bit her lip as she trailed off for a moment. “…you deserve so much better than someone like me—someone good enough for you.”

Héctor found it ironic, how all these years, he had wondered if he hadn’t been good enough for her and that he hadn’t deserved her—when here _she_ was, saying that she didn’t deserve him. Her words were like daggers, reminding him of the pain _he’d_ caused her by keeping her off of the ofrenda, from their family—how he had turned her away when they first reunited, the day he passed into this world. How he had nearly caused her Final Death. And yet, she kept on apologizing even though he was the one who had wronged her.

He sat down next to her, taking her hands into his. “Imelda, you’re more than good enough for me,” he whispered. “If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I turned you away and made our daughter forget you, all because of a misunderstanding.”

As much as it pained her to do so, Imelda yanked her hands out of his grasp. She felt so selfish for yearning for him, despite knowing the consequences of her actions. “But if I had thought things through, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” she protested. “If I had come home sooner, things would’ve been so much different.”

He placed his hands on her cheeks, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. “Stop blaming yourself. You were murdered on the way back home by that cabrón. It’s his fault you couldn’t make it home.”

 _He always knows what to say_ , she thought, as she sniffled and placed a hand on his. “Why are you being so nice to me, despite everything?”

“Because you’re _mi esposa_ and I love you,” he replied simply, smiling a little at her. Then, he murmured, “Stay with me, please…”

“I—” She tried to compose herself, but it was hard as there was still a lingering feeling of remorse. She shook her head, looking away from him. “No. I shouldn’t impose myself on you. I can just stay with Ceci—”

“—you’re not imposing yourself on me,” Héctor interrupted her. “I _want_ you to stay. For so many years, we’ve both been lonely—now that we’re together again, I want to fix things. I want us to be a family again, just like we used to be a long time ago.” He turned her towards him, as he looked into her eyes once more. “From now on, I want to spend every day with the love of my life by my side.”

They leaned closer to one another, as he spoke. Their faces were now only a few inches apart.

Imelda’s metaphorical heart fluttered as she soaked in his words. God, it had been _ages_ since he had spoken so kindly—so _lovingly_ towards her. All of her doubt and guilt seemed to wash away, as his scarlet-colored eyes stared into her amber orbs.

“But I’m only willing to try things out if you’re willing to,” he continued. “So, what do you say?”

For a few minutes, there was silence.

Then, Imelda leaned in and pressed her lips against Héctor’s.

At first, he was a little startled by the kiss, but soon eased into it as he wrapped his arms around her, returning it.

They remained in place for a moment, before they finally pulled away.

“Yes,” Imelda said, her lips curving into a smile. “I’ll stay with you—with _our_ family.” She then placed her head on his chest, nuzzling it a bit. “Te amo, mi amor…”

“Yo también te amo,” he replied, stroking her back gently.

It would take some time for them to fully recover as well as catch up due to all of the years they missed together, but they had enough time to make it all work out.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, things were getting better for Imelda at long last. Her suffering had finally come to an end, she was remembered and she had her family again—and this time, no one could snatch that away from her.

Finally, she could look forward to another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this angsty stuff wasn’t what some would expect out of an Imector chapter, but that’s the only thing I had planned for this. And hey, it ended off on a nice note! They’re together again, and they have a year to adjust and all. Besides, I did say in the last chapter end note that Imelda was stubborn for a reason.  
> But anyway, with that all aside, I hope you guys liked this chapter. All that's left now is the finale and _boy, am I not emotionally ready for that_. ;__;


	17. xvi. “en el latido de mi corazón”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here’s the final chapter, folks! It’s been a fun ride while it lasted, but sadly, all good stories must come to an end.  
> Again, I’d like to thank all of you for the wonderful feedback. It means a lot to me, and I hope that any future fic I write for this series will be just as enjoyable as this one was.  
> Oh, and like in chapter prior to the previous one, Miguel's lyrics are in italics.

It had been a year since that fateful Día de los Muertos, and the cemetery was once again filled with families cleaning off headstones and laying flowers.

Ever since the truth behind De la Cruz had been exposed, his mausoleum didn’t have as many offerings or fans as it did before—not even the usual mariachi band was present. There was only a sign hung up on his bust that read “OLVIDADO.”

“And right over here, one of Santa Cecilia’s greatest treasures,” a tour guide said as she stood in front of the Rivera shoe store. Tourists were crowding in, taking pictures of the skull guitar and framed letters Imelda had wrote to Coco.

“The home of esteemed songwriter Imelda Rivera!” the tour guide continued. “The letters Imelda wrote home for her daughter Coco contain the lyrics for all of your favorite songs, not just ‘Recuérdame.’”

Meanwhile, in the courtyard, the family was preparing for the holiday. Rosa and Abel hung papel picado, while Enrique and Luisa worked on preparing tamales for the feast. Berto swept the cobblestones while his younger twin sons played in the yard, running past the ofrenda room.

* * *

“And that man is your Papá Julio…”

Miguel held his baby sister, Socorro, in his arms as he showed her all of their family members’ photos, pointing them out. The baby had been born a few months after Coco had passed on at age ninety-nine in her sleep. In honor of her memory, Enrique and Luisa named their little girl after her.

“And there’s Tía Rosita,” Miguel continued, “and your Tía Victoria…” He then pointed at the pictures of the twins. “And those two are your Tíos Óscar and Felipe.” Socorro cooed as she held her arms out before sticking her thumb in her mouth, while her brother rocked her in his arms. “These aren’t just old pictures—they’re members of our family, and they’re counting on us to remember them.”

Elena approached her grandson, smiling as she felt proud to see the thirteen year-old keeping up the tradition. She gently stroked the back of his head with her hand, before she placed a picture frame on the ofrenda—a photo of Coco, taken a few months prior to her death.

Miguel saw the sad look on his grandmother’s face as she stared at the photo of her deceased mother. He put his arm around her as an attempt to comfort her, and they both smiled sadly as they looked at the photo.

Next to Coco’s picture sat the photo of Héctor and Imelda with their young daughter, taped back together and restored.

* * *

At the Marigold Grand Central Station, Imelda waited in the departures line, wearing a purple formal dress with black short boots—made by her husband for her, the day after she had been welcomed back into the family. She knew very well that her photo had been put back on the ofrenda, yet she still wasn’t sure if she would actually get the chance to cross the bridge this year along with her family, as she was so used to being unable to do so.

_Dirás que es raro lo que me pasó_

“Next!” the departures agent called out.

Imelda stepped up to the monitor, as the agent recognized her. She closed her eyes, wincing as she braced herself for the impending scan that would determine whether she would get to cross over or not.

The monitor scanned her, and to her surprise, she heard a small ‘ding.’

“Enjoy your visit, Imelda!” the departures agent said, as though she were congratulating her for finally passing the scan.

_Parece que anoche te encontré en mis sueños_

Imelda opened her eyes, letting out a sigh of relief before she grinned. At long last, the scanner worked in her favor.

She exited from the station, only to see that Héctor was waiting for her on the cobblestones.

She walked up to him and said joyfully, “It _worked_ , amor – at long last, it worked!”

“I’m glad,” he chuckled in response, before he wrapped his right arm around her while he held her left hand. Then, they shared a kiss.

“Mamá, Papá!” a familiar voice called out.

The two pulled away and turned to see their daughter approaching.

“Coco!” Héctor and Imelda cried out in unison.

_Las palabras que dije se volvieron canción,_

_Versos que tuyos son y el recuerdo nos dio_

Héctor kissed his daughter’s head a couple of times, before he swung her around in his arms. When he placed Coco down on the ground, she approached her mother and they hugged each other tightly.

No words needed to be said, for what was there to say? At long last, a family that had been torn apart was reunited once more, on this Day of the Dead.

Soon, Coco, Héctor and Imelda joined hands as they stepped forward towards the bridge.

_Una melodía bella que el alma tocó,_

_Con el ritmo que vibra en nuestro interior_

Imelda looked down at her boots, as the petals glowed underneath with each step she took. She swelled with happiness, as she couldn’t believe it—at long last, she was able to cross the bridge alongside the people she loved the most.

At the edge of the marigold bridge were Victoria, Óscar, Felipe, Julio and Rosita, who held hands as they waited for them to arrive.

Héctor nodded at Felipe and took his brother’s hand, while Imelda smiled as she looked at Coco, who had joined hands with Julio.

Once that was over with, the family set off and crossed over together.

_Amor verdadero nos une por siempre, en el latido de mi corazón_

Pepita flew above, through the night sky in the Land of the Dead. Dante flew by her and barked—and together, they descended on the marigold path and bounded across into the Land of the Living.

_Amor verdadero nos une por siempre, en el latido de mi corazón_

Dante’s shadow was cast against a wall as he rounded the corner, having turned back into a normal xolo—his vibrant colors faded out to his usual grey fur, with no wings present on his back. He barked, beckoning for Pepita to come forward.

Her shadow loomed large at first, but it shrunk as she rounded the corner, revealing herself as a little alley cat. She nuzzled against the xolo's side, causing him to lick her head before he barked again, as they ran into the Rivera compound.

_Ay, mi familia_

_Oiga mi gente_

_Canten a coro, nuestra canción_

Abuelita greeted Dante, as she tossed him a sweet treat. Pepita climbed onto the table, just as Berto, Gloria and Carmen were placing some dishes on it. Carmen stroked Pepita’s back gently as she smiled at the cat.

Dante trotted around, passing Julio, Rosita and Victoria who were engaged in a small conversation. They put their conversation on a hold to pet the xolo.

In the courtyard, the family was gathered as Miguel played his guitar and sung. Alongside him, Rosa played the violin while Abel played his accordion—both having learned how to play the instruments not too long after the music ban was lifted.

Dante hopped up by Miguel to give him a lick on the cheek, causing the boy to laugh a bit.

 _Amor verdadero nos une por siempre,_ _en el latido de mi corazón_

Enrique cradled Socorro while Luisa leaned on his shoulders, both smiling with pride as they watched their son sing.

_Ay, mi familia!_

_Oiga mi gente!_

Elena listened proudly to her grandchildren as they played their instruments, while Coco stood beside with an arm around her daughter’s shoulder.

_Canten a coro, nuestra canción!_

Héctor and Imelda danced together, as they listened to Miguel play.

As the thirteen year-old came near, they stopped dancing as Imelda’s eyes lit up. She looked to her husband, grinning as she then stepped forward and took the ‘ghost’ of her great-great grandson’s guitar and began playing it.

Héctor smiled as he placed a hand on his wife's shoulder and began tapping his feet to the rhythm of the guitars, enjoying the song.

As the boy sung, the whole family came together, joined by the music.

Miguel stood on a spare table for a moment, before his father and uncle hoisted him up into the air as he finished the song.

_Amor verdadero nos une por siempre, en el latido de mi corazón!_

* * *

Hours passed, and after a large feast along with more time spent bonding with their ancestors, it was time for the deceased Riveras to head back to the Land of the Dead.

While the rest of the living family went inside, Miguel stayed outside and held his little sister in his arms as they all joined hands and began leaving the yard. “Say goodbye to the family,” he whispered. The baby cooed and held her little hand up, moving it up and down.

However, much to the boy’s surprise, Imelda stepped away from the group and went over to him.

“Gracias, Miguel,” she said, placing a hand on his back before she kissed his forehead. “Because of you, I’ve been reunited with mi familia and I am remembered.”

“ _I_ should be the one thanking _you_ ,” he replied. “After all, you passed down your musical talents to me and are the reason I went on that adventure in the first place. Without you, I’d probably be stuck in the shoe shop making boots.”

They both laughed for a moment, before they heard Héctor call out, “Imelda! Vámonos, amor, before the sun rises!”

Imelda turned to see her husband waiting at the entrance of the compound, along with the other dead family members. “Ya voy!” she called back, before looking back at Miguel. “I’m sorry, chiquito, but I have to go. You know how antsy your Papá Héctor can be.”

The thirteen year-old nodded, a little sad to see the woman go. “I know…”

She smiled at him and hugged him for a moment, before whispering, “Adiós, mijo.”

“Adiós, Mamá Imelda,” he whispered back, as he watched his great-great grandmother head towards the rest of the deceased Riveras. As they joined hands once more and left, he waved at them.

Once his family was out of sight, he sighed and looked back at his baby sister. He grinned, then headed back inside as he cradled her in his arms.

He couldn’t wait to see his family—especially Mamá Imelda—again next year, now that they were all united together once more, by a melody and memories.

But for now, he would make _sure_ that as long as his heart beat proudly, those memories would live on forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, this story is now completed! I wasn’t sure how to end this off, but I decided to pick this ending since it seemed pretty sweet to me. Besides, abuelita-nieto fluff is always nice. As for him seeing his dead relatives, let's just say that's a result of his adventure and leave it at that, okay?  
> However, like I've said before, this series will be continued in a collection on one-shots which will be titled "true love connects us forever." So fret not, this series won't be forgotten (no pun intended) anytime soon. ;)  
> I hope you all enjoyed this little conclusion. Adios, amigos! ♥


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